#then the door closes and the world goes back to being drab black and white

[ladykailolu]

Sorry, I just get so caught up on the fact that men smell sooooooo fucking good when they wear cologne that you can't really smell or notice until you're like....upclose and personal with them in like a slow dance or whatever, and I cant help but say that that delightful and exciting sensory experience fits with my image of Godot.

Yeah I wanna slow dance with Godot and check how he smells. To....check his vibes.

[phoenixhalliwell]

Waking Up In Vegas

Pairings: Benny Miller X Gender Neutral Reader (I have given them a call sign ‘Tink’ cos I love that nickname lol)

Word count: 2490

Author’s Note: Tumblr is being a wee weirdo and I cant find the link for this fic and my other frankie one for my masterlist so I have to report again *cries*

Archnemesis Benny and reader wake up the morning after a wild night in Vegas with the boys to a surprise revelation.

BANG. BANG. BANG. BANG 

 It takes a second to realise that the noise isn’t just your head pounding but in fact someone knocking rapidly at the door. A whimper leaves you as you try not to throw up. You wiggle around the bed, trying to get loose from the heavy blankets but fail miserably.

“Please, stop….too loud. Dying” is all you’re able to croak out. Your mouth is drier than the desert and a one man band is marching in your head. Looking down you realise that it is not a blanket weighing you down but an arm. An arm that is now pulling you backwards to firmly press you against their warm chest. A groan comes from behind you and a face  nuzzles into your throat. You can feel the panic starting to build in your chest.

'Oh god, oh god. What the fuck!’ You are brought out of your freak out by a familiar voice.

“Are you going to open the door willingly Tink? Or am I going to have to come in there myself!”

Frankie! Relief rushes through you at your saviour. Frankie is a good guy, he won’t give you shit for this like the other boys. It’ll be swept under the rug and no one else has to know. That’s why Frankie is your favourite. The person behind you suddenly makes their displeasure at being rudely woken known.

“Will you shut the fuck up Fish, some of us are trying to sleep”

A coldness rushes through you. NO. FUCKING. WAY. Not him. Please not him. Slowly turning in the arms that have you in a death grip, you let out a low moan. Benny Miller is lying there in all his glory. He looks almost angelic with the way the morning sunlight hits him just right, making him glow. But you know the truth.

That man is the fucking DEVIL.

To say you and Benny dislike one another was an understatement. There is a long standing feud between you and the younger Miller that goes so far back you can’t quite remember how it started. You were originally a medic under the command of his brother Will, but over time (with Will vouching for your skills) you’d been pulled into other little jobs that involved his old army buddies and his dipshit little brother. You were welcomed into this little make shift family with open arms (well by most people anyways).Will, Santiago and Frankie - you thought the world of.  Benny…. let’s just say you wouldn’t piss on if he was on fire. There was just something about Benny that just irks you. The way he calls you names and winds you up until you explode and end up being separated by Will who is sick of both of your shit. That god damn cocky grin rubs you up the wrong way. The way he thinks he’s god’s gift to mankind and struts about. Sure, he is a handsome man and is talented at his profession.He can be kind when he wants to be. He’s loyal and he’ll have your back if the situation calls for it,  but it doesn’t mean he has to show off all the fucking time! He’s a god damn pain in your ass!

So to wake up this morning and find out you two have evidently slept together causes a small part of you to die inside. This bastard is never going to let you hear the end of it. You try to cast your mind back on what actually led you to your current predicament.

You and the boys were spending the weekend in Vegas for Santiago’s bachelor party. The wild stallion had finally been tamed and he wanted one last hoorah with his family before the new chapter of his life. The original plan was to have a nice dinner at the Bellagio before hitting up the tables in hopes of winning some cash. That part you could remember, it is the rest that comes in drips and drabs.

The chant of “Shots! Shots! Shots!” echoes in your mind and there is still a faint taste of tequila in your mouth. 'That explains why I can’t remember jack shit. Did we do Karaoke?’ You can see Frankie and Benny screeching “I want to know what love is ” with Will swaying along and Santi throwing money at the them from the front of the stage. 'Why can I hear bells ringing?’ There is also a familiar body ache you know the exact cause of. More flashes come to mind that make your heart race : Stumbling into walls, the desperation of trying to undress quickly, a hot breath on your neck, hands gripping your waist, filthy words being whispered into your ear….

'I’m never drinking again’

The banging at the door starts again, Frankie is clearly pissed at being kept waiting.

“I’m sorry to interrupt your marital bliss but check out is at 11 and I know for a fact neither of you fuck heads have packed”

Marital bliss? Who the hell is married?

You eyes drift down to your left hand and its suddenly hard to breathe. There is a nice new addition to your ring finger. A gold band that sure as shit was not there yesterday. This seems like the perfect moment to start screaming. Benny is up in an instant, scanning the room for the unknown threat. Once he realises it’s just the two of you, his body relaxes and he scrubs his hand over his face. It takes him a moment to notice the feeling of cold metal on his skin and he stares down at his hand, an unreadable look on his face. You are just able to hear him whisper

“Fuck, its real”

This whole situation is suddenly too much and everything becomes blurry as tears fall from your eyes. You can feel yourself start to hyperventilate and Benny is at your side in an instant trying to console you.

“Come on sweetheart you need to calm down. Feel my chest and breathe with me yeah? In… and out…. It’s ok I’ve got you.”

He repeats his reassurances over and over again. You try to focus on the sound of his deep voice, try to follow his instructions to help regulate your breathing. Gradually it returns to normal and you slump forward into Benny’s arms suddenly exhausted. He rubs his hand up and down your back, somewhat soothing you. You  feel him sigh before he turns his face into your hair and presses a gentle kiss to your head. It suddenly occurs to you that Benny has never been this gentle with you and your heart clenches a little. You feel him pull away from you and have to stop yourself from squeezing him tight.  You stand there for a few seconds in silence before you hear the door opening behind you. Frankie must have found the spare key to your room.

“Are you guys still alive in here?” he asks timidly, glancing between  you and Benny,  eyes zoning in on how close the both of you were.

“Yeah man, we’re good.” Benny  replies, moving to stand on the other side of the room.

“Look I am really sorry to rush you’s but Will’s anxious to get on the road and he might end up murdering Santi before the wedding if we all don’t hustle” Frankie says apologetically.

“I’ll catch you guys downstairs. I won’t be long” Benny grabs his things off the floor before making a break for the door, leaving you and Frankie to stare at each other awkwardly.

“Not a word Morales” you threaten.

“Wouldn’t dream of it Tink. Let’s pack your stuff and get the fuck out of dodge yeah?”

Like you said. Frankie was always your favourite.

Awkward doesn’t even begin to cover breakfast. Those little shits planned it so you and Benny are forced to sit side by side in the booth. Frankie is looking somewhat sympathetic when Santi slides a piece of paper over to you with a shit eating grin. It’s photographic evidence of the worst decision of your life. You still weren’t sure how you guys ended up in the little white chapel saying the big 'I Do’. None of the boys seem to remember either or were just refusing to give up any information about it in case they incriminated one of their brothers.

'Bet you it was all that bastard Santi’s fault’

Sighing, you finally look down at the photo in front of you. It was the 5 of you all lined up. You and Benny stand in the middle of the photo, clinging to each other. You were snuggled into his chest as he gazes down at you in awe. You swallow sharply and tear your eyes over to Will who is off to Benny’s left and appears to be crying? (I was just so happy someone took the little shit off my hands) Obviously Will stood in as Benny’s best man, that was a given. On the far end of the photo on your side stood Santi who looked dishevelled and pissed off. Was that blood on his shirt? Between him and you stood Frankie who (unusual for him) was sporting a Cheshire grin. Confused, you looked up at the two men in front of you and suddenly noticed real life Santi had a black eye.

“What the fuck happened to you?”

The two men glanced at each other in embarrassment before Santi quietly admitted that he and Frankie had got into a fist fight over who was going to be your right hand man. Will snorts into his hand in the corner.

'God give me strength not to kill these stupid bastards’  Sighing and rubbing your temples you shot them a glare which has the 3 men across from you cowering in their seats.

“So at no point did any of you guys think to put a stop to this madness?” You growl.

“Is the idea of being married to me really the worst thing in the world?” You hear Benny asks quietly, still not looking at you.

The boys have the good grace to look a little ashamed before Santi decides to pipe up and make his defence.

“Well how could we? Benny spent the best part of the night proclaiming his undying love you. Fuck he even serenaded you at the Karaoke bar.” There is a loud thud and Santi’s face  twists into a grimace. Apparently someone had kicked him under the table.

“Yeah right as if Benny would ever say anything like that! He hates my fucking guts. Right Benny?” You scoff and nudge him with your elbow. An uncomfortable silence washes over the table and Benny refuses to look at you. It’s good old Will who breaks the silence, abruptly standing up.

“Why don’t we go sort out the bill yeah?” looking to his brothers.

Santi squawks in outrage and throws up his hands “But it was just getting to the good part!!!” Will grabs him by the collar of his shirt and drags him out of the booth, muttering furiously into his ear before marching him off to god knows where. Frankie reaches over and gently squeezes your hand before sliding out and giving Benny a pat on the shoulder on the way by.

“Good luck hermano” he calls over his shoulder. You wait for a beat before turning to Benny gearing yourself up for a fight.

“Are you fucking serious right now. Or is this all an elaborate game that you and the boys have cooked up Huh?” you hiss.

“You really think I’m that cruel?” he fires back.

“I don’t know! Ever since I met you, you’ve made my life a living hell Benny! So why wouldn’t this not be the next step in the ’ terrorise Tink’ grande scheme?” The remark clearly hits him hard as he whirls round to finally face you.

“You really have no clue do you.”

“What the hell are you talking about Miller?”

Benny scoffs bitterly and takes a deep breath.

“I don’t hate you Tink! I never have. I’m so far gone on you that Will threatens daily to kill me if I don’t shut up about you. Ask him or any of the guys for that matter”. There’s a look of pleading on his face as though begging you to believe what he is saying that leaves you completely floored. Without waiting for a response he barrels on, the dam broken, clearly needing to get everything off his chest at last.

“Do you realise how intimidating it is to talk to you?. You’re amazing and so fucking beautiful Tink that I feel like I can’t breathe every time i look at you. You are hella smart and watching you work on the job blows my mind every time. And that mouth you have on you, no one else ever calls me out on my shit like you. I know I have a sense of humour that people don’t always get. I know I can be a complete asshole and I don’t really have much going in my favour but  I’m not a bad man Tink I swear. I’ve been sweet on you since the day I met you. For some reason though you just seemed to dislike me from the start so it was easier to play up on being an asshole. It hurt less that way.” He trails off.

What. The. Fuck.

You stare at him. Dumbfounded. You’d been wrong the whole time?

“I remember most of last night Tink. We had been drinking and betting at one of the craps tables. You were on a winning streak and kept saying if you rolled a hard 8 you would do this and that. You were having the time of your life Tink. I’ve never seen you look so free. So Happy. Any time you’re around me, you’re always so closed off. And it kills me. But you were looking at me different last night. And i was so caught up in the game I bet if you rolled a hard 8 one more time that we should get married. And you took me up on that offer. I’ve never felt so fucking happy in my life. I know it was a stupid idea and that we were drunk, but you finally chose me and if anything happened to me after that I could die a happy man.”

He gently brings both his hands up to cup your face and leans in close, not enough for your lips to touch but close enough for him to whisper to you.

“I know this whole Vegas thing has been crazy and I’m not asking you to stay married to me. That would be unreasonable. All I’m asking is that you choose me again. That you give me a chance to show you how much I care about you. Please”

You stare into his eyes for a second, looking for a hint of deception. Finding none, you make your decision. You close the gap between you and feel Benny sigh in relief into the kiss.

I  guess there’s a fine line between love and hate.

[kikizoshi]

may i request a fyogol drabble or short fic about fyodors birthday and how he doesn't think its important but nikolai uses it as an excuse to show him a silly magic trick and suddenly their day isn't going so badly anymore

Yes, of course! Thanks for the ask (and on Fyodor’s birthday, too; this really is such a treat)! I took a few liberties with the story, as you’ll see, because I thought it fit with their theme a bit better, but I tried to include everything you asked for. And, yeah, I hope you enjoy it! It was great having an outside reason to write, so thank you very much!

     The ticking and tocking clock mocks Gogol as he swings his legs, laying half off a new-smelling bed and utterly bored out of his mind. ‘Tick’ reminds him that there’s nothing to do. ‘Tock’ reminds him that he could make something to do. ‘Tick’ argues that he can’t do something out of the ordinary for his character designation of Secretary. 'Tock’ disagrees, because who’s going to be looking at Secretary, anyway? Gogol vaguely remembers the story of an angel and demon on one’s shoulder and groans out loud at the overused cliche.

     He looks over to the door and sighs. He doesn’t mind any of the other scenery around the room–he’d long since tired of the dull white walls and clean kitchen. The worn, polished picture frames and the new IKEA desk mean nothing if their owner doesn’t care for their contents. No, the only things of mild value remain tucked away in Gogol’s cloak, and so nothing catches his eye. It’s just the door that’s insufferable. A sort of freedom taunts him this time in the form of being so very close, and it’s maddening. Strangely, both Tick and Tock agree with him on that.

     Gogol sighs harder–as though that will relieve him of his tantalizing thoughts–and scratches at his black wig. He looks at the tiny slit of a gap between the door and the doorframe and imagines himself becoming as thin as paper (or maybe thinner?), slipping through that taunting crevice. He can practically feel it–the smooth, slightly rough but oh so satisfying slide against the door and doorframe until he’s out and the cool, near-winter air whisks him up, up and away from this melancholic, drab, caged act.

     The clock forgets Gogol’s even there, arguing with itself louder, and that damned itch won’t go away, so Gogol scratches more–only serving to irritate the skin, itching it further–stills his legs, and the free energy coils up in his gut, screaming at him to move. He jolts up and throws the wig across the pristine floor, dragging his nails along his scalp irritably. God, how do people spend their every day like this?!

     It’s terrible, yes, simply awful, so why should Gogol stay in their hell? No, he has better things to do. It’s a very important day, after all! A grin stretches his face at that, the thought instantly lightening his mood. He’d almost forgotten the speciality of this day, but how could he? When his dear, dear friend and coworker surely sits all alone, up to his neck in a pawn that won’t comply or coding that defies all logic or whatever it is that Dostoyevsky even does–for Gogol finds himself rather unaware of such things even when Dostoyevsky explains it to him, such is the work as enigmatic as the worker–what else can Gogol be expected to do if not cheer him up?

     And so, without even bothering to question whether or not his friend actually is in any sort of stress at the moment, Gogol shoots up and all but dashes to the door, only barely stopping to grab his cape before he goes. He does take careful pains to lock his door, however–unwelcome visitors are always troublesome.

     The breeze is … not as cold as he’d expected, though why he expected cold weather at all in Japan is perhaps a mystery not even he can solve. It is cool though, a pleasant breeze even if not a cold one, and Gogol’s smile softens at it. 'We should visit a park or something later,’ he thinks, 'or perhaps look on the city from one of those Mafia buildings?’ He looks up in contemplation to try to see the four tall shapes. Sadly, they don’t appear in his line of view, but that can be fixed! Gogol swings around, walking backwards now and garnering a few stares but that doesn’t matter much now. Now that Gogol can see those dark pillars–and the alley he’s looking for is half a mile away–he gets lost in his imagination for what they could do there.

     The breeze blows chillier than it does on the ground–much more akin to what the two are used to, picking up their capes and blowing them so far they look to be seeking escape–and the city lights twinkling below them could almost be pretty if they weren’t another sign of this world’s latent corruption. That doesn’t matter as much, though, Gogol is sure, since the wind still feels nice and his friend looks to be at some sort of peace for once.

     "Hey, hey, Dos-kun?“ A grin stretches Gogol’s face as he comes up with a marvellous new joke, “What’s the synonym of both 'essential to society’ and 'ignorance’?! I’ll give you three guesses, though I’m sure you only need one!”

     "There are many answers to that, how am I to know which one you mean?“

     "Why, that’s the point!” Gogol laughs, loud and free, “If I weren’t vague, my audience wouldn’t have to guess and the quiz would be no fun at all!”

     "That’s true.“ Dostoyevsky keeps his blank face faced towards the sparkling city as though lost in thought, but Gogol thinks it might just be less cold than usual. “Well then, in this case, your answer is 'the Port Mafia’, as they’re both essential to Yokohama’s society and incredibly ignorant for allowing us to slip onto their roof.”

     "Excellent, bravo, that’s exactly correct!“ Gogol jumps up from the edge they’re both sitting on to proclaim in a sweeping gesture, "It’s a perfect answer, and since you replied so splendidly, I have a special offer!” He holds a hand out to Dostoyevsky–whose hand is gloved, for once; a fact for which Gogol is incredibly thankful–that’s then taken, although the latter doesn’t move to stand. “IIIIIIt’s 'Double or Nothing Time’!!! For the price of figuring out one more trick, I’ll double the prize you would have gotten! Beware though,” Gogol’s voice suddenly drops to a dire whisper, “for if you get this one wrong, you’ll lose everything and be doubly tricked.”

     Dostoyevsky smiles slightly. “And do I have to stand for this new trick of yours?” he asks.

     "Hm, no, I suppose not. Only give me a second.“ Gogol lets go of Dostoyevsky’s hand and pulls his cape across the top half of his body, vanishing it in front of Dostoyevsky’s eyes. Not for long though, as it’s back in front of him when he turns back to look at the city. And also a little too close for comfort. Dostoyevsky pokes Gogol in the chest, a signal for him to back up slightly, which he does with a laugh and 'floats’ there merrily in the air, simply grinning at Dostoyevsky for a moment.

     "So this trick of yours is …” Dostoyevsky trails off, waiting for Gogol to finish–a request to which he happily complies.

     "Yes! You see, I found this the other day,“ Gogol retrieves from his cloak a regular paper napkin, completely average in every way, and holds it out like it’s the Holy Grail, "and I just had to use it! So, my willing participant, if you would be so kind as to hold this for me,” Gogol rips the napkin in two and picks up Dostoyevsky’s right hand, placing one half inside of it, “and I’ll take the other one, see, and curl it up like so,” he crushes his half of the napkin into a ball about half the size of a tennis ball and holds it up with glee, “and viola!”

     "… Your trick is a ball.“ Dostoyevsky stares at him, unimpressed. Gogol laughs again. "No, no! Not a ball,” he cackles, “the ball is only the beginning! No, though the ball is very nice, it’s what’s inside the ball that’s important! If the magician can’t get the special component outside of the ball, then there’s not much point at all, and everyone’s left unsatisfied!”

     "And that is?“

     "Magic, of course!”

     "Of course.“

     "Yes, sooo,” Gogol sways the ball around in front of Dostoyevsky’s eyes, “I want you to pay very special attention to this ball. Whatever you do, whatever happens, don’t, for even a second, let it out of your sight. If you do, then you automatically fail!”

     Dostoyevsky nods.

     "Alright! Now then,“ Gogol puts the ball into his cupped right hand, "as you can see, the ball is here now,” he closes his hand, “and now you don’t see it!” He laughs gaily, though sobers enough to continue when Dostoyevsky gives the ball an exasperated look. He opens his hand back up and takes the ball back with his left hand. “So now, when I put the ball in my hand for the second time and close it, you can be sure that, when I open it again, there will be only empty air! Ready?” Gogol grins wider at Dostoyevsky’s nod.

     Now, here’s the tricky part. Gogol holds the hand with the ball just high enough that a quick flick should be out of Dostoyevsky’s periphrial vision, then quickly brings his left hand down as if he’s putting the ball in. He closes his hand and looks back to Dostoyevsky and … and Dostoyevsky’s not looking at him.

     Rather than focusing on Gogol, like he’d wanted, Dostoyevsky had stayed true to his word and now looks towards the edge of the roof where the ball must have been swept off by the wind. Slowly, he turns his unimpressed expression back to Gogol, though Gogol doesn’t miss the tinge of humour in it. Gogol sighs. Well, it was worth a try. Though he’d hoped he’d get farther than that, it’s not like he didn’t expect–

     "Ah, I see,“ Dostoyevsky continues with a smirk, cutting off Gogol’s train of thought, "so I’ve already been caught.” He holds up the hand that Gogol had taken at the very beginning palm-up to himself and sighs. Right there, though he’d been too distracted to notice it at the time–something Gogol takes great pride in–is a small, flat cylinder, not unlike a poker chip, with a counter counting down from about a minute on it.

     Gogol makes a show of falling back out of his cape and laughs to the sky. “I knew you’d figure it out eventually! Though perhaps it’s too late?! After all, time’s running out and the release switch is who knows where.” Gogol grins mischievously, gloating over his assured victory. To his delight, it actually has the intended effect!

     Dostoyevsky stands, smirk still there although merging with an outright smile now, and walks over to Gogol. Nonchalantly, as though he has all the time in the world, Dostoyevsky reaches into Gogol’s right hand and presses the button on the switch.

     DING! DING! DING! DING!

     Dostoyevsky jumps, startled, at Gogol chuckles and confetti flies out of the disk on Dostoyevsky’s hand, said disk falling to the ground shortly after.

     "Happy birthday!“ Gogol shouts, throwing his arms up in excitement, "And may we wish for many more to come.”

     "So that’s why you brought me up here?“ Dostoyevsky sits back down on the edge, raising a hand to his head. "That’s a long way and a lot of time for nothing, Gogol.”

     "Certainly,“ Gogol says seriously, "That’s why it’s 'Much Ado About Nothing!’ If it was 'Much Ado About Something’ or 'Much Ado About Most Things’ then people wouldn’t be as interested! No, it’s 'Much Ado About Nothing’, and isn’t it such a luxury to have any ado not attributed to anything? I think so. And, wouldn’t you like to experience it too? If only for a little while.” Gogol smiles genuinely, taking a seat back beside Dostoyevsky and taking his hand.

     "I hate to be the one to inform you of this,“ Dostoyevsky says, "but your whole existence could be said to be 'Much Ado About Nothing,’ and therefore insignificant.”

     "Aah, but you see,“ Gogol leans in conspiratorially, "if I were to vanish from society today, it would have an effect. Not an immediate or noticeable one, perhaps, but an effect nonetheless. Therefore, even if you call my existence 'Much Ado About Nothing,’ my actions have to do with something! But anyway,” Gogol takes in a deep breath of air, suddenly becoming much calmer in the moment, “It’s true that I know how to have fanfare over trivialities, but you don’t seem to. It’s always the end or beginning of the world, but nothing ever happens outside of that. Wouldn’t you like to try, then, and take a step out of reality for even just a handful of minutes? Surely it wouldn’t be terrible.”

     "Perhaps.“ Dostoyevsky’s smile becomes only that, then, and he sighs a sigh that Gogol might almost venture to call contented. "I hope you plan on cleaning the confetti, because I definitely won’t.”

     Gogol laughs.

     Coming out of his thoughts, Gogol notices the alleyway to his destination and grins. It’s just about time, then. Even if things won’t happen exactly the way he’d imagined them, just seeing Dostoyevsky soften is more than enough of a goal for the day!

     With that in mind, he sweeps through his cape the rest of the way and ends up in a fairly cramped room. It’s a few doors behind an underground bar–'Lupin’ he remembers the sign said–that Dostoyevsky bought from the now-dead owner of the establishment. As such, the backroom that Gogol finds himself in isn’t too big, holding only a small group of pillows Gogol guesses could be called a bed, a single glowing bulb fixed into the ceiling, a desk, chair, and a few monitors. Why, exactly, Dostoyevsky decides to stay here, when there are plenty other–better–places to stay, Gogol has no idea. The former doesn’t seem to have a problem with the setup, however, as he’s … well, he’s doing something completely unexpected now that Gogol looks at him with properly adjusted eyes.

     Dostoyevsky looks up from his book, the stark pink colouring of it seemingly shining in the dark room as he lowers it slightly. “Gogol. What brings you here?” He asks.

     "My, you sound positively brimming with happiness at my visit! Can I not see friends when the boredom consumes me whole?“

     "No, it’s not that you can’t, but you never do things without even a minuscule reason. Humans don’t.”

     Gogol sighs. Working up to his fantasy will take time, but it’s time well-spent if it’s time with his friend. Or coworker. Dostoyevsky doesn’t seem to be in a good mood, after all. “Yes, and that boredom is my very reason! Usually you would get that … Oh no, is something seriously wrong?!”

     "No, I understood that. But you have another motive, too.“ Dostoyevsky sets his book on the table next to him and leans back in his chair.

     "Of course, of course,” Gogol relents, “because … No, but I’ll let you guess! What better way to get the mind working than a quiz?! And a quiz needs a hint! Let’s see, 'what rhymes with "calendar?”’“

     "November. You’re here because of my birthday too then, but there’s no need and even less so since you have to break character to be here.”

     "On the contrary, it’s very important! Even if not to you, then to the people around you, so,“ Gogol reaches into his cloak–and readjusts it while he’s at it. Had he really been so careless in throwing it on?–and pulls out a small-ish, lumpy yet neatly wrapped package, "I’ll let you guess what this is, and if you get it right, I’ll give you a second present!”

     Dostoyevsky takes the package–irritably–and feels it, squishing and turning and making a mess of the packaging. Gogol watches in anticipation. 

     After a few moments, Dostoyevsky answers. “It’s a new ushanka.” Promptly, before Gogol can announce the verdict, Dostoyevsky rips open the packaging to reveal a hat exactly like the one he’s wearing. He sighs. “I already have one though. What’s the point in getting a new one?”

     "Because!“ Gogol exclaims, "You were talking about that guy–”

     "Dazai?“

     "Maybe–you didn’t mention him by name–and I thought, since you were so peeved at him for wearing your hat, you’d want a new one that you could call unsullied by your nemesis!”

     "I see.“ Dostoyevsky removes his hat and replaces it with the new one from Gogol. Much to Gogol’s delight, his expression does soften some as he feels at it on his head. "It’s softer,” Dostoyevsky says.

     "Of course, your other one was getting rather old, too.“ Gogol smiles and pats Dostoyevsky on the head through his cape. "This one should be warmer as well, although I still don’t know how you manage to wear such furry clothes in the heat–”

     "Thank you,“ Dostoyevsky says, smiling, "it’s nice.”

     Gogol smiles back and moves closer to Dostoyevsky. “I haven’t forgotten about your second present either.” Slowly– to give Dostoyevsky enough time to move away if he wishes–Gogol slips his arms around him in a semi-awkward embrace and says simply, “Happy birthday.”

     Dostoyevsky returns the hug, “Still, I can’t help but think this should be a time of mourning for you, too.”

     When Gogol pulls back, Dostoyevsky is smiling cunningly. Gogol mildly worries. “E-Eh? Why would I mourn the day of your birth?”

     "How about a quiz?“ The smile stays, and Gogol feels himself cornered before the conversation has even ended. "Since you like them so much, I’ll provide one this time.”

     "Why thank you,“ Gogol laughs, pulling away completely to sit on the pillows across from him, and thinks aloud, "Let’s see, a reason to mourn Dos-kun’s birth … Because it’s bad for the world? But I don’t believe that! His existence hasn’t caused me any pain not of my own making, has been very beneficial, yet I have some reason to mourn it …” After a few moments of silence, Gogol finally throws his hands up in defeat. “I have no idea! I give up, so you’ll have to tell me.”

     The now-smirk grows, “Because,” Dostoyevsky begins, as though explaining something to a schoolboy, “now you’ll no longer be able to make jokes of being the older one of us.”

     Gogol’s eyes shoot wide open as he processes the new information. “Oh no!” He screams, “How could I have forgotten such an important detail?! You’re right. This is terrible, utterly awful! But alas, I must endure it … Yes, I’ll endure it for a few more months, and then all will be right again!”

     "But you won’t,“ Dostoyevsky says, "because you won’t have the chance.”Gogol tilts his head in confusion. “What? Of course March will get here eventually! So why wouldn’t–” Just then, as though the realisation strikes him with a staggering force, he leans back onto the wall and his smile falls sad. “Ah, of course. I won’t be here for March.”

     Dostoyevsky nods. “Precisely.” His expression becomes grim too, and he comes to sit next to Gogol. “So perhaps we should change the plan–it’s what I was thinking when you came in. There are a few ways about it, although the boss won’t like it very much, it’s not as though they can do anything about it if we decide not to go through with 'Sunday’s Tragedy,’ as you like to call it.”

     Gogol shakes his head, a resolute smile on his lips. “No, that’d be no good. The whole point of Sunday’s Tragedy is that it happens. I wouldn’t have agreed to it if it went differently, so of course, we can’t change it. Don’t you already know that?”

     Dostoyevsky sighs. “Yes,” he says simply, resting his head against the wall and looking at nothing in particular. There’s nothing else to say, Gogol supposes. Still, this isn’t how it was supposed to go. Dostoyevsky wasn’t supposed to end up depressed by the end–Gogol wasn’t either.

     "It’s,“ Gogol says, "It’s going to turn out fine. After all, we’ve known each other for, say, about nine years now, and most of the plans you worked on came to fruition. Even if these plans are shared amongst others, I believe in the things you create, so you can believe in them too.” He takes Dostoyevsky’s hand, “I’m sure of it. You don’t have to worry.”

     ” … You put a mechanised party popper in my hand at a moment like this …“

     "Ah, drat! And here I thought I was sneaky this time!” Gogol laughs nonetheless and takes out the release switch. “Well, since you figured it out so quickly, I suppose I’ll end it myself this time.”

     Dostoyevsky’s eyes widen. “No, wait–”

     DING! DING! DING! DING!

[madelineantoinetteportfolio]

A Close Reading of the Visual Communication Within Thank You, Omu! by Oge Mora

Upon opening Thank You, Omu! By Oge Mora, we are faced with vibrant shades of lilac, sages, and yellows, collaged together to form the map-esque portrait of what we can assume is an urban neighborhood (thanks, cut-out taxis and snip of subway map). We also learn from this front endpaper that our protagonist’s name, Omu, is the Igbo term for “queen.” The text goes on to tell a story of a generous woman, who lives “on the corner of First Street and Long Street, on the very top floor,” nurturing a big pot of stew, encountering constant interruptions by people within her community knocking on her apartment door, who simply cannot resist the delicious aroma of her stew. I will examine how the text-image relationship — rather simple text accompanied with specific, rich, telling images — works to establish the dynamic between protagonist Omu and her community, as well as provide social commentary.

We are shown protagonist Omu on the story’s first spread. The image tells us she is an older woman who is not white; she has she white hair, smile lines around her mouth, and brown skin. Her white hair is pinned back, showcasing a dangly gold earring. Her yellow dress compliments this gold earring, as does the “waft” exiting her red, blue, green, white, brown, and black floral patterned stew. The waft directs our eyes where to gaze: out the window, into the community, represented by skyscraper-like buildings. This waft symbolically represents the theme, that there is so much to gain from sharing one’s goodness. Additionally, we must notice that Omu, an older woman, who, as far as the reader is ever told, is single and lives alone, has a bright pink kitchen. Nothing about her or the environment in which she inhibits is muted. She appears joyful, warm, content, and confident. This challenges society’s traditional negative stereotypes of an older, single woman,; ie. matronly, drab, unhappy, unfulfilled, pitifully lonely. In this spread, there is a duality between the words and the images. “This duality can be in the form of a playful dance, where images and words can appear to flirt with and contradict each other...words themselves become pictorial elements and the outcome as a whole is ‘visual text’” (Salisbury and Styles, 89).

Turning to the next page, it is reiterated that Omu lives in an apartment building. On the floor below Omu, we see a little black boy playing with a toy car on a window sill. He is the only body in his window, making him appear to be alone, just like Omu. In the following spread, Omu opens her door after hearing a knock to discover him on the other side. The text does not detail Omu’s feelings regarding this little boy randomly showing up;, it only contains the dialogue of Omu inquiring about what he is doing there. The illustration, however, expresses Omu with a look of hesitancy, and perhaps concern, regarding the little boy. There is a line sketched from the top of her nose, down to her chin, her mouth is facing downward, and her eyebrows are raised. Omu’s expression, as well as the little boy’s lone state, work to emphasize Omu’s generous nature; of course, she is going to give this sweet, lonely little boy some of her stew, because that is the kind of person she is. Further, the little boy is illustrated at a much lower eye-level than she, making Omu appear “queen'' like. She is above him; she has the power in this situation, because she is the beholder of the ever-so- coveted stew, and she uses her power for good when she shares her stew with him. The little boy is also featured on the cover of the book, intentionally showing book shoppers some representation of a character other than a little, white suburban boy.

Of course, the little boy is not the only one who comes knocking on Omu’s door. He is followed by a female police officer, a hot dog vendor, a shop owner, a cab driver, an actor, a dancer, a baker, an artist, a singer, an athlete, a bus driver, a construction worker and the mayor. Each of these characters, although not verbally described, is communicated to us visually. Mora uses a diverse palette of browns, peaches, and tans to color their skin. Additionally, Mora does not make every character fit the traditional gender of its career choice. For example, the police officer is “Ms.” police officer, and the doctor appears to be drawn female as well. The construction worker appears to be male, yes, but as he lifts some lumber, his stance is sassy, and he almost appears drag-queen like, with his heels a little high. Despite all of these characters being very diverse, the main spread listing them illustrates them in a peaceful unison: they all have their eyes dreamily shut and soft smiles on their faces. Also, they float sporadically on the page, showing no divide of environment between characters. They all live in harmony to make the city peaceful. The generosity of citizens like Omu is what keeps the city going strong in this manner.

As the story progresses, we see that all of Omu’s generosity has rendered her with none of the stew left for herself. She is pictured alone with a sad expression, her formerly pink kitchen muted to a darker lavender color, until the entire community, led by the little boy, knocks on her door. All of the citizens bring in goodies to share, and we are reintroduced to the “waft,” coming from several of these new dishes, surrounding all of the community, just as Omu’s stew had done earlier in the story.

Omu and another older woman are at the head of the table, reiterating Mora’s theme that older women should be honored and respected...the author’s note states that “Thank You, Omu! was inspired by the strong female role models in Oge’s life,” and Mora called her own grandmother “Omu.” This second to last spread strongly emphasizes the relationship between Omu and her community. Omu’s seemingly simple act of kindness has brought the entire community together, just as a real queen would. The citizens are all huddled around Omu, delighted to soak in all of her love and generosity. She, in her yellow dress, is a warm sun, which is what makes the world go ‘round.

This warmth, both within Omu herself and within the entire story of Thank You, Omu!, certainly leaves a lasting impression, making it no surprise that Mora received the Coretta Scott King John Steptoe Award for New Talent for Thank You, Omu! in 2019. The Coretta Scott King John Steptoe Award for New Talent rewards “affirms new talent and offers visibility to excellence in writing and/or illustration which otherwise might be formally unacknowledged” (The American Library Association). Through using the illustrations to supplement to the communication of the book, rather than simply match a picture to the written text, Mora lets the reader peak into a diverse community, displaying that the love, kindness, and generosity so many women constantly offer is no small act and conveying a sweet dynamic between Omu and her fellow citizens.

[mchalowitz]

fic: with/without child

summary: they imagine a life with their son, they try to find him.

Trust no one morphs into trust everyone.

Emails received from anonymous senders, addresses dropped into his lap. A hacked last name of unsubstantiated origin. He keeps this from the one person he really, truly trusts, and tries to believe that this is a noble decision. Her heart has been through too much, he rationalizes. She has felt the stabs of anguish too much by his hand. By withholding what he knows, he causes that pain all the same.

He goes to the far reaches of the country on a hunch, under the guise of visiting his mother’s gravesite. He’s been a free man for a year or so, it feels like something he would need to check off his list of things to catch up on. She’s confused, he was never close with his mother anyway, but she’s glad he’s getting out of the house when she’s spending so much time at the hospital. He kisses her cheek before he leaves with a suitcase in hand. 

He believed he would meet his son. He didn’t. 

Mulder has thought of his son a thousand times. 

A flash of copper hair and toothless smiles when he hands a complacent technician his sample cup at the donor lab, visions of clumsy waddling and eating popsicles in the grass during humid nights on the run. He wastes away in his office, dreaming of kitchen science experiments, and hashing out the dynamics of kindergarten romances.

Bringing up their son to Scully is like adding vinegar to baking soda, an explosion occurs.

If Scully allows herself to dream about a life with William, she would never let him know. In bares bones motel rooms once upon the time, the questions were always on the tip of his tongue. He wanted to know everything, right down to the way he smelled, and how he fussed. He never thought he had any parental instincts until the moment he held that baby in his arms. 

For a few months, they stayed in an off-the-grid cabin in the thick forests of Montana. It was the farthest north they ever went, the closest to a life of freedom they rejected across the border. It was the first time they stayed somewhere more than a few weeks, a respite from motel rooms and truck stops. It was peaceful, comfortable, the first seed of inspiration to find their own home. 

They get a little drunk a couple nights in, loosened by cheap merlot. Her feet  stretched across his lap, her small body sunken into the ancient cushions. “Do you think he’s okay?” he remembers asking, twisting his glass in his hand. His alcohol sloshed brain cannot hold this in any longer. “His p--the people he’s with, do you think they’re good?” She says she hopes so, with a hint of a tremble in her tone.

She imagines him as a little boy with her hair and his eyes. His first word is something strange like Okobogee or mothman. He loves books and never sleeps. He tells her he wants to be a doctor, he tells him he wants to be a ghost buster. 

He sees his son more in scenes than details. Chewing on Mulder’s index finger when he teethes, while Scully stands by insisting it’s unsanitary. Road trips to amusement parks that aren’t haunted. Telling him tales of his parents’ adventures like fairytales until he insists he’s too old for these made up stories. 

They never have another conversation about their son that doesn’t end in tears and slammed doors, accusations of resentment for the other’s choices. The guilt cuts hot and deep. Eventually, it seems better to hold it inside. 

It is not an active decision to find more joy in their lives, it just happens. It’s a transition they knew would come eventually, where they have whole days where they don’t think about the fact that they have a son somewhere in the world. They laugh until they can’t breath at each other’s jokes, they like to go to the farmer’s market on weekends with their outfits that unintentionally match just enough to make other people jealous. They make love for no purpose other than because it’s fun. They exchange vows and it is the purest moment of bliss they have ever experienced. 

They are still two parents without a child. They sleep side by side, wonder if giving him up really kept him safe.

It takes more than five years for him to admit to her he used his connections to track him down. More than once. He still keeps the trips to the far reaches of the country on false leads to himself. The world not ending is not the only reason he fell into darkness, ruined their lives, their marriage. 

Mulder believes this time will be different. Their car parked in the shadows, they stare down another government facility. Their relationship was built on trespassing. He wonders how many twenty foot high fences he’s had to boost her over. He sees her wedding ring glinting in the light. “Don’t want our son to think we’re living in sin?” he asks. He can’t go long without making a stupid joke. 

“Mulder, shut up,” she tells him as she swings her leg over the top. He makes a comment about the possibility of being too old for fences. 

Scully starts to respond when he shushes her, pulling her around the nearest corner. They’re rusty at the whole trespassing thing. They didn’t spend enough time accessing the area. Two guards, rifles in hand, cross from one building to another. He waits for them to disappear inside the building. He starts to follow. 

“What makes you think that building is the right one?” 

“It’s been twenty-four years, Scully, you should know a lot of my work is based on hunches.”

He doesn’t expect her to be satisfied by this answer and she isn’t. It has no basis of actual fact. Mulder, in a less than legal fashion, has acquired a keycard to the facility. He thinks. He hopes. He slides it. There’s a click, a flash of green. He opens the door, holding his arm high so she can walk underneath. 

"Alright, since you seem to have a handle on this, which way?"

"Split up, meet back at the car? If you get the milk, I’ll get the eggs."

She decides left in aggravation. With the militarian exterior, he was expecting something a bit more drab, but this facility is almost hospital-like, with its bright florescent lights, and white walls. Underneath, there is something very prison-esque. Each door appears like a vessel of confinement. “I think it’s this one,” Scully tells him. 

"Why?"

"I thought we were working purely on vibes this time around."

“I said hunches, not vibes. Totally different,” he tells her. There’s a bin next to the door, holding a file. She grabs it, begins to read as he watches. She wordlessly urges him with a pat on his arm to unlock the door. She rips out the papers, shoves them into her jacket. 

Click, green. He pushes the door open. The light in the room is almost tortuously overwhelming. It feels like there isn’t enough time to process the images in front of them before Mulder feels a body push hard against him. His partner falls to the ground.

Mulder starts to kneel down to help Scully as she scrambles to her feet. “I’m okay, I’m okay. Mulder, we have to catch him before they do. They’ll kill him.” 

They take off down the hallway. Her hair is flapping behind her, she’s always been faster than him. They follow the squeaking sound of sneakers, the same body being forced against heavy doors to the outside. There aren’t a lot of choices when it comes to hiding places. There’s another building a few yards ahead, more of a warehouse. They watch the door swing shut. 

This is not the kind of game of hide and seek he saw in his mind.

Inside the empty building, it’s almost pitch black. The only light comes from the moon shining through the openings near the ceiling. There’s the click from a gun. 

In all his fantasies, he never sees his child behind the barrel of a gun. 

"Put your hands up!"

Mulder and Scully exchange a look, raise their hands. The light finally hits the child’s face and they both know what the other is thinking. They both imagined a copy of Scully, with her auburn hair, and fair skin, and slight frame. This William, the real one, looks like faded photographs of his father in Oxford sweatshirts and floppy hair. Scully is in there, with his piercing sky eyes, and hints of that auburn color, but anyone’s doubt about the father of this child can be erased in an instant. 

"William," Scully says softly, the comforting tone of a mother. "We're here to help you."

"You can’t help me. You’re going to do to me what the others did to my parents. Stay away from me!” 

It’s been some time since Mulder has had to negotiate when a gun in being held just a few feet from his face. He’s never had to with a scared child. His scared child. “We understand what you’ve been through, William, we just want to help.” He can't begin to fathom what has happened to cause this. “My partner is a medical doctor. If they’ve done something to you, she will know what to do.” 

The gun is wagging around violently. They can see how hard their son is shaking. One wrong move could end this all fatally. Mulder steps forward slowly, hands still up.  “It’s okay,” he says, barely above a whisper. “You can trust us.” He takes another forward step, places his hand on a thin wrist. “I can take it.”

The boy nods. His fingers loosen, letting the gun drop into Mulder’s hand. He closes his eyes, tears slipping down his cheeks. “Hey,” Mulder says. “None of that.” William’s eyes fly open, there’s a flash of what looks like confused recognition in his eyes. 

Scully lowers her hands. Mulder watches her expression of wonder as she walks toward him. He’s so tall, her arm almost has to stretch when she brings her hand up to his cheek. This is their first contact in years. She knows he needs it, and she takes that leap of faith that he will not reject her. Whether he knows her or not, he leans into her touch.

[ikonislife]

Soulmate 2

- OT7 x Reader

- It’s not all honey and sunshine in the world where soulmates are something of God given will. Will the boys be strong enough to get through the day with their better half or will the relationship will tarnish with the tick of the clock.

-Fluff, slight angst, soulmate au, soulmate!iKon

-Chapter 1: Chanwoo - The Boy with the Baseball Glove

-Chapter 2: Hanbin - The Boy in the Red Flannel

-Chapter 3: Yunhyeong - The Boy in the Chef Apron

It is a truth universally acknowledged, that a single man (or woman) in possession of a good fortune, must be in want of a mate. Just in this universe, this time and space, that truth is a bit more complicated than most. It seems as though everyone around you were raised on the rigid schedule of school, career, marriage. People stumbling and bumbling around like fools waiting for that special someone to drop on their laps and be merry as if their sole purpose in life is to find a mate. Sure lots of time it works out for the better but more often than not, it entails a string of heartbreak and tears that perhaps is nobody’s fault but the outdated belief that your soulmate gets assigned to you for a reason so just accept it and let it be. The ridiculous belief that the meaning of life is to get a fortune, or as close to one as you could in the modern days meaning a good career, then getting hitched off to some stranger for the rest of your life and be merry for all eternity.

That’s right. This is one of those world that soulmate comes to you neatly wrap in a bow by some sort of higher divine, cosmic bullshit. You had always wonder had it been any other way, in some other universe where soulmate is what you decided or the idea of soulmate is altogether preposterous, would it be any better. The idea of stumbling through life searching for the connection to the person you’re suppose to spend your life with is curious yet intriguing. How many times, trials and errors would you have to go through before ending up with that person. Whatever it is, seems better than having someone popping up out of nowhere like a flower in spring and just “Tah dah, I’m your soulmate, love me.” Where’s the romance, where’s the passion. Sure this was efficient when the human race was on the brink of extinction but now with it thriving like a horde of unstoppable cockroach taking over Earth and moving onto outer space, why was looking for your own love so radical.

You had heard the story thousand, no, millions of times of course. When you meet the one that was meant for you, your heart will just know. How could it be any more cryptic than that. Come on, couldn’t the ancestors had asked the Gods for something more obvious like a sign,their names appearing on your skin as a tattoo, the sound of their voice, the world bursting out with colors, anything. Nope! All you got to go on is heart palpitation or something like that. You scoffed at the girls huddling together excitingly sharing the tale on the playground at age 6, cafeteria at age 11, again at the gym locker at age 16. Some girls are so hellbent on “saving themselves heart and soul” for their soulmate that they would turn down completely good men and happiness times again. You sigh as the fleeting giggle as a group of girls murmur amongst each other, something about the girl named Hani finally felt that heart clenching moment.

Maybe you’ll never feel it, maybe it’ll be tomorrow but who knows… Whatever it may be, you’re in no rush to find out.

The Boy in the Red Flannel.

Admittedly, you’ve never bought into the whole soulmate idea nor were you ever a romantic… but sitting here in this boring beige room on your own, braving the pity eyes and that strange scent of hospital, this has got to be the lowest of low.

The road that lead to this point unraveled faster than anyone could’ve expected. You sure didn’t even know how it got to this point in a mere four months since the first time you felt that soul crushing, heart clenching moment. You sure didn’t at all.

It was just another busy night at your uncle’s small bbq joint. His wife out of commission courtesy of a brand spanking new baby and the 4 hours of sleep combined between the both of them, also thanks the the brand spanking new baby. Sleepless yet on cloud 9, they both had somehow guilted you into helping out on your spare time, just until they could figure out a better solution. A slight curve tugs at the corner of your lips at the distant memory of the night you met him… Kim Hanbin.

There used to be something so sweet, so deeply satisfied about the way his name rolled off your tongue. Just the fact that you knew you could utter his name and he’d turn around, be at attention to whatever it is you had to say. Used to. Lately, the utterance of his name just brings on tears and irresolute within your heart. The discomfort in your chest brings you back to the sound of the clerk at the front desk calling for your name.

“Miss Y/n?”

On your feet immediately, you near trip on the way to him, hands clutching a yellow manila folder that quite possibly will change your entire life.

“Before I enter your application, I am require by law to ask, Are you one hundred percent certain you want to go through with this.” He speaks up, a bit more wary this time unlike the bright smile he had given when your name was being called.

“Yes, I’m sure.”

“Is there anyone you’d like for me to call?” The vagueness in his question just goes out the window the second you caught onto the glance he passes at the place where Hanbin’s name would be.

“No one.”

“Alright, miss Y/n. I will now processed your request of dissolving your soulmate title application. If you can go ahead and go through door number one please. The doctor will be with you shortly.”

He smiles politely but you could see underneath that facade, a hint of sadness of a man watching a few too many times the breaking of soulmate. How or why someone would want this fucked up job, you honestly can’t understand. With one last glance and a small thankful smile for not prying at your sadness, you shut the door to room number one.

Now you know why the whole damn place smells of disinfectant. The room white, blindingly white from top to bottom, a black leathered medical bed sits neatly in the middle of it all, typical of a doctor office. A few monitors dark and silent, cabinets with locks and identical bottles inside lined the wall. The sanitary paper crinkle with the weight of your body sinking down onto the black leathered bed. Laying back, your eyes flutter shut from the impossible brightness of the room, seriously, how could a room be brighter than the sun outside.

Perhaps out of the sheer exhaustion of spending the last three nights staying up crying while pushing yourself to go through with this god forbid procedure that has your tired mind running back to that night.

You had heard a commotion, something about someone famous but at the time, the Queen of England herself could be sitting in front of you and your brain wouldn’t connect the dot even if she was wearing the crown and totting her corgi herd. No preparation would be enough to get you ready for food service job. Prop to all the food service worker, or any service worker out there really, ya’ll amazing. One second you were running dishes to table 3 then all of the sudden you were taking order at table 8. You felt like a rag doll being thrown in the tornado of hungry mouths, too impatient to be polite enough to be in public let alone a dining establishment. Your hands holding onto a tray full of those blue plastic cup filled to the rim with water, struggling a bit because who knew this job required you to have the physique of the Rock. You were struggling of course, all the way up until the tightening of your heartstring had you stop dead in your track.

There it was.

The rate your heart were accelerating had you mistaken it for a race car engine then Boom. One strong hammer left you paralyzed as noise blurred into distorted mumble. Your chest felt like it was ripping itself open to release all the pressure built up from what you had no idea. For a moment, you thought this was it, this is where your short life will end, heart attack at a tender age with no legacy to leave behind, no asset to your name. Then Boom. A second hammer had the tray of water tumbling out of your grip and you clutched your chest, eyes searching the crowd for something you didn’t know yet.

There he stood.

Kim Hanbin. So handsome even with just grey sweat, black worn out Converse, a red flannel that compliment him like a dream,  a bit of blond hair peeking out from underneath a black beanie to play. He stared at you, right through you and into your soul. His hand too, was clutching his chest... you wondered, was he nervous too? Did his palm grimy with sweat like yours were? At that moment you could feel the second heartbeat steading fast in your ribcage and everyone else disappeared. All you could see was those doe eyes, pale skin lit under the moonlight, glowing from the dirty yellowed light bulbs from countless night spent mingling with the scent of meat and smoke. Even with the open atmosphere of the outdoor bbq restaurant, your lungs felt like there was no oxygen left in the room as he parted the crowd toward you.

“Hi.” was all he said as he stared you down, eyes almost scrutinizing against every part of your body and soul.

“Hello.” You had replied.

The door creaking open reeling you back to the drab reality of the white room. A lady, can’t be much older than your sister saunters in with her Louboutin heels and a pristine white lab coat. She introduces herself as Janice, the state doctor before taking a seat next to where you’re laying. She rambles on about what you had no fucking clue as your mind tries its best to recall every sweet, albeit rare moments you had with Hanbin. Judging from the twenty signatures you signed before this and the ominous warning of every worker you dealt with so far, something tells you Hanbin won’t mean much after Janice is done.

“You’re certain you want to go through with this? No harm in backing out now, Y/n. I’d understand if you need to reschedule... Maybe speak to someone first about your decision?” She speaks with care dripping from her voice and for a split second you doubted yourself. The memories of those warm, loving brown eyes and the adorably shy smile drown your senses, forcing a smile on your lips. They were so excruciatingly loving that you wish with all your might it was you at the receiving end of them. You wish so hard that the first time those eyes laid upon you there was love but they were just blank, void of any emotion beside shock. Shock that you found out all too soon why... Sohee. He was so head over heels for the model with those elegant long legs, figure of a goddess, skin whiter than feather of swans, and giggle like sunshine. So much so that even the thought of meeting his soulmate was fearsome, then to actually finally meet you... Well, make sense why you’re sitting here in this room with some woman named Janice that was about to shove a giant needle into your heart from what you’ve read on the pamphlet in the waiting room.

“I wish everyone would stop asking me that…” You timidly speak up, chuckling slightly to lighten the mood, afraid of hurting the good doctor feeling but judging from the regret twisting up her soft features, it didn’t work.

“We just want to make absolute certain you’re okay with everything because once you started, even just one dose, everything could be altered.” You nod again and a silver box is now being pull out from one of those cabinet with lock. Janice opens it up, revealing 5 small glass vial and a syringe you now wish you didn’t have to befriend with. Explanation of details ensue but Hanbin fading smile is now permeating all your senses.

It was the awkward smile he had given you the 3rd time you had met up. He hadn’t intended for it to gone down this way, his soulmate in the same room as his crush. You knew that first night that something was wrong when his heartbeat failed to match up to yours but you chose to ignore it. From the grand story your best friend had told then retold then reiterate for safety the night she met Chanwoo, you knew that was a sign and it was nothing good. Big mistake on your part as you watch him followed her around like a lost puppy. Great shiny curls bounced as she waltzed around the party in that skin tight red dress. Her makeup glimmered in all the right spot under the soft light of the grand chandelier. They talked, they danced, they laughed while you sat, then grew green with envy, before walking home alone.

Hanbin was always nice. But that was it, he was just nice... a little bit guilty, feel sorry for you even. Unlike Chanwoo and your best friend, they were head over heels in love with each other, so much so that he cried for a whole hour straight the first time he had to tour and she was too busy to come with.They went on dates and he made the best effort to get to know her and cater to her needs. He camped out at her house, spent time with her family, and honestly, they might as well be married. Hanbin, he’s just nice. Who could blame him though, between a hot model crush and you, the girl who met him in tattered boyfriend jeans, an oversized t-shirt, hair in a giant messy bun that couldn’t save itself from embarrassment. You would honestly chose the other girl if given the choice. You felt, still feel guilty for tearing him apart. The idea of dissolving the relationship officially had been toying on your mind for awhile now but you couldn’t bring yourself to do it… After all, that was the only red string tying you to him, even if it’s unwanted, the only connection you got to still see his face once or twice a week.

Your resolve was true and clear until you overheard him talking to Jinhwan. You believe his precise words were “I couldn’t have met Y/n at a wronger time, truthfully. I mean, it’s so messed up, this whole thing.” You weren’t dumb. You knew something was wrong that night you met, as his eyes weren’t glossed over with hope and dream like yours did but again, stupidly, you couldn’t bring yourself to accept, too stubborn too prideful to admit that you’re just holding onto a hopeless reality.

Well, jokes on you now as your brain made a big long way back to Janice as she finished filling the syringe with the drug and was now rubbing a pad of alcohol over the skin above your heart.

“Are we ready? If you want to stop, say it now. This can leave permanent damage. Even just one dose, it could leave irreversible damage.” You nod again and a rush of pain worse than anything in this world rained down upon your already aching heart and you black out.

Somewhere in the same city, Hanbin collapses mid practice from a pain so great he could only has time to utter your name before he too being carry away to the bench at the corner of the practice room by Chanwoo and Junhoe. The pain feels so much like the first moment he had seen you, so similar yet why is there an ominous, almost morbid souring rising inside his chest. Hand over his chest, cold sweat breaking all over his body, Hanbin stares blankly at the rest of the concern plague boys with the utmost confusion on his face. The doctor had cleared him with a perfect health at last month check up so what the hell is this throbbing in his chest that feel awfully close to a heart attack.

Then it hits him… “Y/n!” Cold sweat breaking, he screams before tearing out of the room faster than rocket straight to your house. He didn’t know how many times he had pressed the redial button on the short 20 minutes drive to your house. He just remember pestering his manager to step on it despite the poor man pushing the speed limit to the max without risking any life. Hanbin spends the rest of the short walk to your front step praying to God you’d open up the door and complains about being too busy with work as always. If the 3 calls and 6 texts he had sent you this morning wasn’t alarming enough, this jolt to the heart is church bell apocalypse alarm going off. He had thought you were just busy even if it is a bit weird you had ignored him for that long. If there was anything hanbin could count on, it’d be that you’ll always answer his texts and calls no matter the hour. Before he could tap on the doorbell, the red wooden door to tour humble abode had already swung open but to his disappointment it was your mother behind it.

“Hanbin! What are you doing here?” Your mom has more glee in her eyes at the sight of her could be son in law visiting than she had when you came home from a month long trip.

“Uhm, hello Mrs. Y/l/n. Is y/n home?" He feels the wind being knocks out of his chest from running, and from not knowing.

"She didn't tell you? Oh my goodness this girl will give me a heart attack someday. I told her so many times to tell you before she leaves." Hanbin will get a heart attack right now of your mom didn't tell him where you were soon. If he didn't find you in the next second, it'll be a second too late.

"I'm sorry Mrs. Y/l/n. I'm kind of in a hurry and she's not picking up her phone." He smiles guilty for interrupting your mom but right now is not time for chit chat.  

"I'm sorry. Old lady trait, we just talk till oh gosh, we don’t stop talking now do we. I don't know where she is but her best friend should know. They said they were going away together for awhile seeing how it’s summer and all. You should ask your brother, what was his name chankyung, chansung?” She muses, you would’ve call her petty if you had heard because she knows his name but refuses to remember it on the account that somehow your best friend had gotten herself a soulmate before you.

“Chanwoo. Thank you so much. I’m sorry I have to rush out. I promise I’ll stay next time for dinner.” Hanbin runs off all the while bowing to your waving mom mom. His steps heavy with each passing second... Your mom had always been so lovely, reminding Hanbin so much of his own. He could see she loves you very much and you do her despite the constant bickering like cat and dog not even a second into a conversation. More than once he had found himself smiling like a fool watching the small quarrel you’d have with your mom as the the red door closing, before you squeezed in one last wave goodbye and a smile as a thank you for dropping you home. Yet never once did he let himself accept the dinner invitation to a home cooked meal despite the way your eyes sparked with hope and happiness every time your mom asked. Slowly, you stopped bother to wait for his answer and just head straight inside. Now, now he might never get that chance anymore if he surmises correctly.

“Jung Chanwoo, put your girlfriend on the phone.” He yelled, no sense nor patient left to be nice even though he knows the maknae had done nothing wrong except for being in love with the one person you confide your deepest secret in. Judging from the noise, the poor boy scrambles to give his love the phone without questioning.

“What do you want, Hanbin?” Your best friend sasses back, never was one to be gentle when it comes to Hanbin. She heard you cried too many times over not being the soulmate he asked for.

“Y/n, where is she?”

“Oh, not even a hello? wow, I’m hurt. I-”

“GODDAMN IT, WOMAN. WHERE’S MY SOULMATE?” Hanbin had always been a gentle soul. He never had the gut to hurt your feeling so never once did he admit to having a humongous crush the size of mount Everest on someone that wasn’t his soulmate. He kept you around with the small nice gestures and his kind words yet little did he knows, it hurt you way more to have false hope then only to watch him delicately wrapped the sweater warmed with his body heat around her dainty shoulders.

“S-She’s at the airport... her flight is in an hour and a half, go to terminal 3 right now if you wanna catch her.” Your dear best friend feels chill running down her spine from the low grunt of his voice rather than the usual sweet tone.

If he has any mind for mundane thought right now, Hanbin would be in utter shock at the ability of his spent legs to tear through the airport with such speed, all in hope of finding you on time. He’d also thanks heaven that you chose the slowest day and time to fly out of the smallest airport in the city, though at the moment, he couldn’t care less if either fan or pester reporter see him. He can’t be late, not now, he can’t let you down again.

Terminal 3 burst into view, bright from the glass panes lining the wall. His eyes frantically searches for the familiar tousles of hair and the figure he had come to memorize, never mind the worsening pain in his chest and the aching that has beginning to settle in his legs.

“Y/N!”

He screams and you feel yourself frozen in a pocket of time. Sure you had dreamt that he’d run to you, stop you from leaving like those iconic romcom scenes but realistically, how could he when you had left without a word. You chuckle to yourself before continuing your heavy steps toward the gate, in complete disbelief that you could still imagining such thing even with the shot of medicine to the heart. Even when you feel your shoulder being tug back, tumbling backward surely to hit the ground hard, the thought of Hanbin was stopping you were still preposterous. You had prepared to attack whoever it was but then how could it be... How could his voice still sound so realistic next to your ears... How.

“Y/n, stop, please... Please...”

Your body was being hold on tight yet you weren’t scare, why aren’t you scare? Fearful, your eyes avert the stranger’s gaze yet they’re also drinking in the sight of that familiar fabric and that comforting scent.

“H-Hanbin?” There he is, panic fills his eyes as they searches for any sort of emotion on your blank face... “Huh... so this is where this old thing had been.” Your eyes soften after a good minute of just staring at the face that was slowly losing meaning in your mind, listening to his pants as your heart tingles rather than the full blown palpitation you were used to whenever he faces you. Your fingers tracing out the edge of old red checkered flannel he had worn the first time you saw his handsome self. “I’ve been looking for it you know...”

“I, you left it at the dorm last time you were over.” He sighs, forehead resting against yours, hot breath fanning your face from the endless time of running.

“Ah... I thought I lost it.”

“I thought you didn’t want it anymore... Seeing how you’re leaving me and all.”

“How could I not want it... It’s the only thing left I have of you.” Your voice barely there, eyes relearning the lines of his features one last time before they lose all meaning. “So,you come to this neck of the wood often?” You ponder, wondering why is he being so affectionate with the way his left arm wrapping tight around your waist, right hand rubbing gentle circles on your back. Honestly, if anyone see now, they might really mistaken a boy seeing his girlfriend off, unwilling to let go of his love.

“How could you still joke right now... Why, Y/n?” His voice pained and truthfully, your heart feel at peace. No pain, no clenching, nothing. Wow, this drug really is miracle.

“It’s alright, Hanbin. I’m fine...” A dejected grin blooms on your lips as your fingers continue to trace out the seams and buttons of the endearing worn flannel. “I know you don’t like me so-”

“Don’t go and decide who I like and don’t like. Doing something this crazy, and on your own? You really are insane.” Before you could even finish formulating your thought, Hanbin stabs you in the heart once more.

“I- You don’t have to lie, Hanbin. I know you love Sohee... Wait, how did you-”

“Know you went through with the procedure?” He stole the words off your tongue before pulling down the collar of the white tee he had been wearing down just enough for you to catch a glimpse of the sharp red lines etched deep onto his skin where his own fingers had clawed in desperation to alleviate the pain . Blooming dark on his perfectly milky skin a deep bruise mirroring the same one you have over your own heart, although his lacks the scab where the needle of the syringe once was. Your eyes widen in shock, fingers gently caress his silky soft skin with the utmost care, wincing as he flinches slightly from no doubt pain. “Y/n, how could you do something like that without telling me first? Are you crazy? Did it hurt a lot? I can’t imagine how much it hurt for you... Must be ten, hundred times compare to mine.”

“Hanbin, stop it.” Your voice wavering, breathy. How could he destroys all the resolve you had for the past 2 weeks with just a few sentences and one hug. You could feel your legs giving out even if your heart stilled and calmed under the affect of the drug.

“Does it still hurt? Let me see.” His words caring, accompany by the hand that was now pressing tight over the one you have atop your heart. “Can I see? I just want to make sure you’re okay.”

“I’m serious, Hanbin. Stop it.” Your words like ghost to his ears as he continues whatever it is he had planned.

“Please? How are you feeling?”

“Stop.”

“What’s wrong? Are you hurting again?”

“STOP. STOP. I SAID STOP. What do you think you’re doing.” Against everything you had ever wanted, you push him off with all your might, ripping the comfort and serenity he’s providing away. “You don’t love me. You’ve never love me. Please... Just let me go. I don’t want to be hurt anymore.” You exasperate and Hanbin feels his heart creaks wide open, bleeding raw yet at the same time he’s angry, angry you’re so blind as to not see it.

“Where is it?” He grumbles suddenly, tone changing faster than you could even comprehend.  “Y/n, where’s the rest of the drug. I know there’re more doses.” Before you could even realize what he was asking for, his hands already digging deep into your duffle bag, pulling out the silver box Janice had so carefully packed for your long trip. He opens it in haste without a  care in the world and before you could act, hanbin’s already dropping it on the floor and with all the pent up anger and sadness, he smashes them to pieces with each stomp of his feet.

“No, no, no, no, Hanbin. No stop.” You lunges at the bleeding vials, wanting, needing to salvage whatever that was left but he holds you back, with all his strength and love, he holds you in his arms.

“How could you be so fucking blind, Y/n? I fucking love you. How could you not see it, for months now, I fucking love you.” Rather than the reaction he had hoped for, his words only enraged you further, adding fuel to your already raging flames. You punch him hard in the chest before diving onto the useless pile of broken glass and stained box. You mutter words of incredulity that this was happening, that all the pity you endured, the hours of pain, the time you spent blacked out on that stupid hospital chair bed after shot, and most of all the effort it took to ignore all his attempts at reaching you. It was all a waste, spilling out like the medicine running free of its confinement, soaking through the box.

“Did you know how hard it was for me to get these? Kim Hanbin you crazy person.” You shot a glare his way but instead of guilt, anger upon fury was what evident on his face. “Calling me blind? what the fuck do you know about blindness... It’s not like you’ve ever see me when she’s around.”

“I don’t- Wow, honestly?” Frustration taut on his forehead as a grunt passes those lips that you thought only could whisper honey drip voice and sunshine. “You want to know about blindness? I’ll tell you. Blindness is when you’re so fucking obsess with staring at Sohee you completely missed out on all the things that’s wonderful about yourself. Blindness is when you could work toward love yet instead you chose to pity yourself while staring at Chanwoo and his girl. Blindness... Blindness is when you’re so hellbent on me not loving you that you’d go do something this fucked up without letting me know first.” His body drops onto the floor, hands reaching to stop your still frantic hands searching for any remnant of the medicine that could be salvage. Hanbin knows the tale all too well, after all, he was always a romantic unlike what you’ve come to believe about him. He’s all for the notion of meeting that someone he’s fated to be with for the rest of his life, to get to know them, learn to love the good and the bad. So it was natural that he decided to learn about, what he considers to be one of the most heartbroken act in the world, to rid yourself of your soulmate. He knows how the medicine would affect the host body, the pain, the aching, or at least to the extent the witness accounts explained in the many books he read. He also knows that each time a heart is subjects to the medicine, it loses a bit of its capability to love and that is the last thing he wants for you. He wants you all to himself, to have all the love your heart can produce and the thought of you going through that archaic torture all on your own shatters his soul. Even if it’s it’s not him that has your heart, Hanbin needs for you to be able to love with all your heart, to be happy. His voice soften as he pulls you to rest on his chest, pressing a soft kiss to the top of your head. Elated that he got a chance to kiss you even if it’s not to your lips, sadden that this might be the last time he’s able to.  “You know what fucking blindness is? It’s when you’re so busy staring at everyone else that you missed all the glances I stole when you’re around. It’s when you chalked all the small things I do for you, all the love gestures I planned out because I’m so fucking infatuated with you, as me pitying you. It’s when you’re so blind to your own feeling that you dismissed mine because you think it’s somehow impossible for me to love you.” He sighs, this time gently onto your lips where he had just placed his own for a delicate kiss.

“I-I just thought you felt bad because...” You mutter back against his lips, not quite yet returning the kiss but in no way rejecting his touch.

“I fucking love you.  Nobody is pitying you, Y/n. I. Love. You. How many time do you want me to say it?” He pulls away, slightly ashamed that he had forced himself onto you even if it was in the smallest way he knows how. His eyes blown from being so close to you, he could still detect the floral perfume you had put on so many hours ago, and the slight hint of rose scented lip balm that always made your lips look so delectable. There wasn’t a hint of doubt nor that this was all an elaborate joke. His gaze, his voice, even the way he breathes are all so sincere.

“For the rest of your life...?” You whisper back, putting what little left your heart could still feel left for him on the statement, betting it all away for another chance. Hanbin couldn’t believe what he was hearing. Moments ago you were pushing him away, hours before you were turning him down in the most hurtful way you could but now...

“Wha-?!”

‘For... the rest...of our lives?” Your voice loses its confidence as the boy still holding onto your limp body begins to retreat at the bombshell statement.

“This... you can still joke right now? Okay. I love you. I love you.” His embrace constricting, pressing your heart close to his and there it was again. The tiniest clench, like a baby being born into the world, so vulnerable yet so magnificent. Eyes wide, Hanbin pushes you away just enough to study your expression that was mirroring his, complete and utter shock. “I love you.” He said again, once more pressing your chest to his, bursting out in the heartiest of laugh when the kitten like jolt resonates through his heart again. He laughs, then cries, then something that sounds awfully lot like “I did it, I fixed your heart” ushers out of his lips as he pulls you onto your feet, hand clasping tight in yours. Yet when he begins to walk, a dead weight holding him back in place, wiping that smile off his face.

“I’m not leaving with you, Hanbin. I got a flight to catch.” A sudden rush of memories swirls in the air, stopping your happy reunion short.

“What? But, Y/n... I, we, our hearts synced... How could you still deny that I love you.” Appalls by your stubborness, he croaks out for the umpteenth time today, words of disbelief and shock.

“Just because my heart malfunctioned doesn’t mean anything changes.... Or anything you said to Jinhwan that one night” Your hand retreats from his loosening grasp, no doubt your words struck a nerve.

“How much did you hear?”

“Enough... enough to know this is all a lie.”  His mouth closing then opening like fish out of water, trying his best to tie it all together but you interrupt his thought once again. “Save it, Hanbin. Just admit to yourself that what you feel for me is pity. Go back to Sohee, I’m sure in time she’ll becomes your soulmate.”

“Shut up for one second, will you?” He retaliates. “This, this is exactly why I called you blind. You see- You hear one part of the whole then fill in the rest with your messed up view of everyone. You wanna know the rest of that story? or are you going to run away and sulk, risking a lifetime of happiness over a misunderstanding.” Fingers carding through his soft blond hair frustratingly, he stands his ground, awaiting your answer and when none came, he sighs in relief. “Good. I told hyung you couldn’t come at a worse time because yes, I didn’t love you when I first saw you. Because I was so occupied with trying to get over Sohee. She had found her life long partner and I was just a little boy crushing on her helplessly from the shadow. I said that because I knew I didn’t give you all that I could, all that you deserve from a soulmate. I know I neglected you but I was scared of messing up. I wanted things to be perfect and I guess I waited too long to tell you. ” He chuckles but his expression conveys perfectly how much pain he’s in, how messed up this whole situation is, and how much he blames himself. “I just want everything to be perfect for my perfect girl. If you had picked up your phone today, we would be on our first date right now. I had this whole big plan, take you to the zoo, then maybe a bit of shopping before we go to dinner. Then we’ll go to the pier at night, they’ve been having that food festival there. Have some food, a drink or two, maybe then I’ll have enough courage to kiss you.... Not breaking up in an airport. Now it’s too late.” Hands shoving deep in his pockets, his gaze averting yours onto the boring white tiles, scuffed up with endless stream of passenger. A small sniffle reaches your ears and  before you know what was happening, your heart had overridden your brain as you lean forward to pull the shivering boy into your arms.

“It’s not too late...” Was all you could say before he already captures your lips in another kiss. His hands rough against your body, like a kid desperately clinging onto the thin restraint of his favorite balloon that could float away at any second but you didn’t mind it one bit. It feels so good to be hold, to be needed after months of standing on the sideline. Hanbin didn’t really care that he might come off as desperate with the way his lips hastily catching yours the second you pull away. His kisses like blows to your heart and head as your mind dizzy with the weight of everything that had just happened. Your hands found purchase around his tear stained cheeks, holding him back just enough to search for his eyes.

“Hanbin... Stop for a second.” You whine when he crashes his lips against yours once more, not caring that your hands were doing their best to hold him back.

“No, Y/n. You’re gonna overthink again if I stop. Just a little bit more, baby.” You almost hated when he use that whiny voice of his, almost.

“Baby? Where did that name come from?” You quip, a small smirk tugging at your lips as your fingers work their best to wipe of the few lingering tears raining from those beautiful eyes, well more like struggling to wipe his cheeks as he resists, wanting nothing more to continue his show of affection.

“I- uh... I... Shhh.”

“Let’s go, lover boy. People are beginning to stare...” You eyes the passerby warily, acutely aware of the fact that you two had just put on a very public and dramatic show. “I’ll come home with you if I can have the red flannel back, deal?”

Glancing around, his face suddenly lights up brighter than a red Christmas light at the small giggle and whispers of an older couple something about “puppy love”. Suddenly your resistant was being fully accepted as he pulls you up in his arm, hoisting the heavy duffle bag onto his shoulder. Arm holding you close, Hanbin insisting on pressing kisses to your forehead and hair as you both step toward a future radiant with hope and love. “Deal! deal! You can have this one, and my whole closet. Whatever you want, baby. Just, come home. We’ll figure it out together, okay?” Shedding quickly the old worn thing he had never think twice about throwing onto the ground after a sweaty game with Chanwoo, or stuffing it in the corner of his room till it takes on a strange scent, Hanbin is just glad you’re finally listening to him, finally looking at him. If he can’t get the damn thing over your body in the next second, it’d be too late. “Are you sure this is the only thing you want, babe? I can get you new one, better one...” Taking a moment for yourself, you silently bask in the overflowing warmth as Hanbin wraps the red flannel with the slight scent of sweat around your body, happily chatting away.

“I just want this one.You know, I didn’t think you would be this cheesy...” You quip, feigning disgust at the embolden wet kiss he just landed on your lips, deep down overjoy that your heart has begun to learn the rhythm of that foreign beat of his heart.

“Did you think the boys were kidding when they complain that I’m too clingy, or into skinship way too much?” Cheeky with a smirk on his lips and playful glint in his eyes, he pulls you close once again, pressing your face into his chest as you both awaits the arrival of his manager.

“I mean, I didn’t think it’s this bad...”

“Well, get used to it missy. From the look of things, you’re not leaving my side for the next couple years, just for safe measure, in case you do something crazy again.”

“You’re crazy.”

“Crazy in love with you is what I am

The boy in the Chef Apron. (Coming Soon)

[aleesblog]

Remembrance hump of Garrincha published in The Blizzard

                                                                                                                                                                         Bird of Passage                                                    

A personal quest into the life-story of Garrincha, Brazil’s unrefined legend                

                       By Andrew Lees                    

1st June 2017

Money talks but it don't sing and dance, and it don't walk

Neil Diamond

Under an unremarkable sky there were four of us out on the backstreet making our rings fly. I thrust my ring away then pulled it in, creating ellipses in the summer air. If it dared to slip I coaxed it back up, bending my knees and bracing my shoulders as I tried to circle the sun. Jill Clapham and Karen Pullen were streets ahead, looping their hoops in a swaying 2/4 rhythm and creating double flirts with their ductile hips. That morning as the larks rose into the sky above Little Switzerland I twirled my first ton.

At two o’clock we all ran in to watch Sweden play Brazil. My father was already crouched in front of our Bush console. I sat beside him on the hearthrug and my mother brought in a jug of Kia-Ora orange squash. On the other side of the bulbous screen a thickset man in a raincoat was triumphantly brandishing a large Swedish flag. The magic mirror then moved its focus to show the opposing teams jogging up and down uncomfortably in the silent rain. At last the referee blew his whistle and the final was afoot. A quarter of an hour into the game the commentator informed us that the effervescent Brazilian fans were singing, “Samba, Samba” even though they were losing 1-0. Garrincha, their right-winger attacked from the fringes. Twice in succession in the first half, he beat three players and his inch-perfect goalmouth crosses resulted in Vavá goals. As the game went on my eyes were drawn more and more to this hunched man who never passed the ball. On 29 June 1958 I was transported to a field of dreams somewhere on another planet.  

That winter I gave up hula-hooping and started to kick a rubber ball against our coal house door. I learned to keep the pill on the ground, tame its wicked bounce and make it run. I gained a rhythm that allowed me to twist and dart past imaginary opponents. I found that with the slightest of taps from my left foot I was able to alter the ball’s speed and trajectory. I kept my feet apart, flexed my body and imagined I was Garrincha. My ball slept with me under the sheets as I listened to Bobby Vee on my portable radio.

I set unregistered record after record with that small rubber ball and became a star of the school playground. It was also the last time the skylarks darted out of the turf and diminished to dark specks in the porcelain sky, the last time they would sing their hearts out, momentarily disembodied as they summoned the sun.

It was now 1959 and I had started to go to football matches with my father. I loved the communal walk to the ground, the baying wit of the tribe and the surging swell of bodies tumbling down the terraces. But what I watched on the pitch was a war in which tough men battled it out for a paltry win bonus. The game was prosaic, forbidding and merciless and bore no resemblance to the fluidity of the Brazilian champions.

In the summer of 1966 I got to watch Brazil play for a second time. Garrincha emerged from the Goodison Park tunnel wearing the number 16 shirt. His unstoppable swerving banana kick that had hit the top right hand corner of the Park End net three days earlier had led me to anticipate a repeat performance of the mesmeric sequence of steps I had watched as an 11 year old with my father. After the band had played the national anthems Brazil’s bandy-legged outside-right ambled over to position himself next to two policemen patrolling the far touchline.

Under the floodlights and with the Liverpool crowd’s chants of “Hungary, Hungary” and “ee ay adio ” echoing in their ears Flórián Albert and Ferenc Bene set about putting the ageing world champions to the sword with fast incisive counter-attacks. Just before half-time Kenneth Wolstenholme, the BBC sportscaster, lamented, “Ah, Garrincha seems to have gone now. He has lost all the feistiness and fire and that devastating burst of speed.”  

In the second half I noticed that Garrincha sometimes came inside looking for help and on the rare occasions when he tried to get round the outside of the Hungarian defence he was easily cut off and forced to pass. At the final whistle a delirium of appreciation burst forth, as toilet rolls rained onto the pitch. A stray balloon blew up from the Gwladys Street terrace, drifting forlornly in the direction of Stanley Park.

It is 2006 and I am sitting in the Bar Vesuvio in the old cocoa port of Ilhéus watching Botafogo play Vasco da Gama. The ball rarely leaves the ground and always seems to be angled perfectly through the narrowest of channels. Periodically it shoots out to the flanks and is then rifled back across the box. In this game corners and throw-ins are irrelevant. The ball dips and bends as it fires towards goal. Then out of the blue a Botafogo player goes round his opponent on the outside and I blurt out the words, “Alma de Garrincha.” An old man sitting beside me smiled kindly and said, “Garrincha jogou futebol do mesmo modo que viveu sua vida, divertindo-se e irresponsalvelmente!” [Garrincha played football the same way he lived his life, pleasing himself and running wild!]

Back in England football was now an acceptable topic of conversation in the hospital canteen. In fact there were many similarities between the modus operandi of university teaching hospitals and Premier League football clubs. One Tuesday lunchtime after rounds I explained that ‘Garrincha’ was a drab little Brazilian bird with a buzzing flight and a bubbly song that could not survive in a cage. Nobody had heard of Garrincha.

I then got out my laptop and showed them extracts from the 1963 Cinema Novo film Alegria do Povo [The Happiness of the People]. The film begins with black and white photographs of Garrincha to a soundtrack of samba. I fast-forwarded so they could see the Lone Star of Botafogo mesmerising his opponents in the Maracanã stadium.

One of the house officers, a Manchester United supporter reflected, “He plays a bit like George Best.” I replied caustically that Garrincha was Best, Stanley Matthews and John Barnes and a snake charmer rolled into one. “What’s more you don’t need slow motion/3D/surround sound from 23 angles to prove he has more tricks than Messi and more grace than Ronaldo.” I knew that my fuzzy evidence had not convinced them. They smiled benignly but knew their chief was basking in the emotional overglow of an unhealthy reminiscence bump.

Undeterred I continued to watch web compilations of the Little Bird’s sillage, much of which had been posthumously embellished by music. To Moacyr Franco’s song Balada no.7 (Mané Garrincha) I watch him double back before arrowing away to the right. A magnet seemed to be always attracting him to the margin of the pitch. His style was casual, irreverent and highly improbable but never disrespectful. He tormented and teased but never mocked. He was wordless and indefinable. For Garrincha, football was no more than a series of duels against instantly forgettable defenders and foreplay was far more enjoyable than scoring. The more joyous he made the crowd, the sterner became his facial expression. He was football’s Buster Keaton cracking jokes with his bandy legs and dancing to the gaps in the music. In one game playing for Botafogo he was even admonished by the official for flirtatious play. He was a one-man carnival who could turn life upside down with his antics. ‘Seu Mané’ expunged the prison of cause and effect from the game of football.

By the second half of the 19th century Lancashire cotton goods had become almost worthless in Brazil. Even the turbines coming in on the Liverpool boats from Manchester were in far less demand. As a consequence the 1000 or so English expatriates began to invest more in local textile production. John Sherrington, a man who had strong commercial links with Manchester, purchased a stretch of verdant land that nestled below the forested Serra dos Órgãos in the centre of the sate of Rio de Janeiro. Here in 1878 in the grounds of the old fazenda he and his two Brazilian partners constructed a textile mill. The project got off to an ill-omened start when the ancient tree said to have been more than 50m tall and with a trunk circumference greater than 30 human arm spans came down during the construction of a road, but within a few years the factory was functional, converting natural fibres into yarn and then fabric.

The municipality of Pau Grande in the district of Vila Inhomirim 50km outside Rio de Janeiro already had a small railway line. It had been constructed by the English engineer William Bragge in 1853 and connected Raiz da Serra and the Imperial City of Petrópolis with the wharf in the small port of Mauá at the mouth of the Rio Inhomirim. This railway provided a reliable form of transport from the mill to the coast.

The Francisco dos Santos family were descendants of the Fulni-ô Indians, who after being ousted from their coastal homeland by the Portuguese had settled in Águas Belas, a municipality close to the Rio Ipanema. Although they had finally been hounded down near Quebrangulo and forced to take the surname of their oppressor these ‘people of the river and stones’ refused to bow to outside discipline. As their traditional lifestyle was eroded some of their number assimilated with renegade black slaves in the quilombo hideouts of the Brazilian outback.

Manuel Francisco dos Santos was the first to travel the 2000km from the tribal homelands to the boomtown dominated by the mill owned by the América Fabril company. Although the landscape bore similarities with the countryside on the borders of the states of Alagoas and Pernambuco from where he had travelled, Pau Grande itself more closely resembled Delph or Saddleworth on the Pennine ridge.

The several hundred labourers had come from all over Brazil but the mill managers were exclusively English. In return for the privileges of secure employment and accommodation the predominantly illiterate mill workers were obliged to comply with the strict discipline and moral code of the British Empire. Mr Hall, the manager, would sometimes deal with misdemeanours that had occurred outside the factory by administering a caning to the miscreant. Mr Smith, the director, emphasised the virtues of hard work and self discipline and encouraged football on the premise of ‘healthy body, healthy mind’.

On 28 October 1933 Manuel’s brother Amaro dos Santos, who worked at América Fabril as a security guard, became a father for the fifth time. The midwife was the first to notice that the baby boy’s left leg bent out and the right turned in. Manuel Francisco dos Santos had to grow up fast and his love of trapping and caging birds led his older sister Rosa to nickname him Garrincha. In his school reports he was described as quiet but mischievous and impulsive and his teachers considered him uneducable. For the young Mané by far the best thing about Pau Grande was a secluded potholed stretch of grass 60m by 40m high on a bluff that overlooked the factory. There were days when he would return two or three times for peladas [kickabouts]. Barefooted and dressed only in shorts Garrincha and a couple of mates would regularly thrash older opponents. His hunting spear was the ball and his prey lay nestled in the back of the net guarded by a goalkeeper. When he was not running with the ball he would be fishing or hunting with his friends Pincel and Swing, two brothers from the neighbouring Raiz de Serra.

His first job, at 14, was in the cotton room of the mill with its blistering heat, lung-damaging dust and deafening machines. The air had to be kept hot and humid in this the most unpleasant working environment of the factory to prevent the thread from breaking. He was always going absent, often to drink cachaça in a local bar or have sex with the mill girls at the back of the small football stadium belonging to SC Pau Grande, which had been founded in 1908 by workers from the factory. His employers soon gave up any hope of getting a decent day’s work out of him and it was only his footballing deftness that saved him from the sack. With Garrincha in SC Pau Grande’s side the factory team went two years without a defeat.

The coach likened Garrincha to Saci, the pipe-smoking mulatto imp whose spellbinding one-legged footwork created whirlwinds of chaos wherever he went. It was impossible to outrun Saci, who could make himself disappear at will. Sometimes he would transform into Matita Pereira, an elusive bird whose melancholic song seemed to come from nowhere. The only way to placate this legendary trickster was to leave him a bottle of cachaça.

Eventually Garrincha’s dazzling dribbles came to the attention of scouts from Rio de Janeiro and he was offered trials for the big clubs. He arrived at Vasco da Gama’s São Januário ground without boots, turned up late for a trial with São Cristóvão and when asked to stay overnight by Fluminense feared for his job and returned on the last train home. His insouciance counted heavily against him. Eventually a supporter and scout from Botafogo, a modest football and regatta club, but one that had a strong journalistic and intellectual following, dragged SC Pau Grande’s number 7 back to the capital.

On clapping eyes on Garrincha, the Botafogo coach Gentil Cardoso is said to have muttered, “Now they’re bringing cripples to me.” He then asked the young bumpkin, “How do you play, son?” to which Garrincha replied, “With boots!” After watching him kick a ball around Cardoso had seen enough to throw Garrincha into the first-team squad’s practice match. After the game the Brazil left-back Nílton Santos, who had been nutmegged for the first time in his career by the upstart, is said to have told Cardoso that the boy was a monster and should be signed on the spot if only to prevent him being snapped up by one of their rivals. The Rio press enthusiastically heralded Garrincha’s signing as a professional footballer in 1953. Their only criticism was “the boy dribbles too much.”  

In Sweden in 1958, Garrincha was the best in the world in his position. Four years later in Chile he was the finest player in the world. After he had been officially announced as the player of the tournament, the poet Vinicius de Moraes composed the sonnet 'O Anjo das Pernas Tortas' [The Angel with Twisted Legs]:

'Didi passes and Garrincha advances

Observing intently the leather glued to his foot

He dribbles once, then again, then rests

Measuring the moment to attack

Then by second nature he launches forward

Faster than the speed of thought.'

In his June 1962 article “O Escrete de Loucos” [The Squad of Madmen] published in Fatos & Fotos, Nelson Rodrigues, the great Brazilian cronista reported that the European squads had been working on strategies to stop Garrincha but had not taken into account that the Brazilian team was a phenomenon made up of pranksters who played the game from the soul. In the last minutes of the final against Czechoslovakia, Garrincha had turned the opposition to stone. One defender even put his hands on his hips in total capitulation. Regarding the earlier 3-1 victory against England in the quarter-final, Rodrigues wrote, “The Englishman plays football whereas the Brazilian lives and suffers every move.”

Garrincha fathered fourteen children by five different women. One of them, Ulf, was born after the 1958 World Cup final and grew up in Sweden1. Garrincha had a lengthy and tempestuous relationship with the samba diva Elza Soares. He drank heavily and was responsible for the death of his mother-in-law in a car accident where he was drunk behind the wheel. When he finally hung up his boots, after a brief comeback with the small Rio club Olaria in 1972, he faded into oblivion. One of his last public appearances was at the carnival in Rio de Janeiro. The shots of his hunched bloated figure sitting alone on the front of the Mangueira samba school float saddened the nation.

Following Garrincha’s death from the complications of alcoholism on 20 January 1983, Hamilton Pereira da Silva, a poet and a politician from Tocantins, composed Requiem for an Angel:

They stood in the cortege

And offered him wings

Multicoloured wings

Vermilion, white

Chocolate

Grey

Hang gliding on the wing

For you who lived as an angel for so many years

These wings would have been meaningless

Before the eyes of the people

In the magical glow

Of those Sunday afternoons…

Two days after the announcement of Garrincha’s death, the poet Carlos Drummond de Andrade published an article entitled “Mané and the Dream” in the Jornal do Brasil in which he declared that football had become a panacea for Brazil’s sickness. Garrincha had been a reluctant hero who had temporarily banished the nation’s inferiority complex and inspired the have-nots to greater things, He pleaded for another Garrincha to rekindle the nation’s dreams: “The god that rules football is sardonic and insincere. Garrincha was one of his envoys, delegated to make a mockery of everything and everyone in his stadiums. The god of football is also cruel because he concealed from Garrincha the faculty to realise his mission as a divine agent.”

In his imagined chronicle Diario do Tarde Paulo Mendes Campos wrote that the rules of Association Football did not apply when Garrincha was on the pitch. The pushes, trips and shoves against him went unpunished and it was only when the embarrassed defender fearful of ridicule by the crowd pulled at his shirt that the complicit referee would be reluctantly forced to award a foul.

Despite these chansons de geste by Brazil’s greatest living writers and poets, the truth of the matter was that Seu Mané’s trickery defied literary description. Football was not an art. Garrincha had held a mirror up to the nation.

His body was taken from the clinic in Botafogo to the Maracanã stadium. Nílton Santos insisted that his teammate be buried in Pau Grande and not in the new mausoleum for professional footballers in the Jardim da Saudade. Traffic came to a halt on the Avenida Brasil as the cortège passed by with mourners crowding the sides of the road and others throwing flowers from the overhead bridges. “Garrincha you made the world smile and now you make it cry” had been daubed on a tree. As the mayhem of cars finally approached Pau Grande the bottleneck became so great that people were forced to abandon their vehicles and walk to the little church.

Seu Mané had played the game for its own sake. His fancy footwork, element of surprise and capacity for improvisation had nourished the nation’s soul. A memorial stone was placed in the cemetery. Its inscription read, “He was a sweet child. He spoke with the birds.” Tostão, his teammate, would write on the 20th anniversary of Mané’s death, “Garrincha was much more than a dribbler, a ballet dancer and a showman, he was a star.”

My sentimental quest begins at the Botafogo Sports and Regatta Club on Avenida Venceslau Brás. It’s now used mainly by the young socios (members) to play volleyball and basketball. A picture of Nílton Santos in the entrance reminds the club of its glory years. His black and white striped shirt with its lone star hangs in a display case next to the trophy cabinet.

When Garrincha played for Botafogo de Futebol e Regatas it was a deeply superstitious club.  The day before the game a mass communion with eggnog, milk and biscuits would took place and on match day the club’s silk curtains were tied up to symbolise the ensnarement of the opponents’ legs. An hour before the game each player was compelled to take a mud bath and eat three apples. An ex-Fluminense player had to be included in every team. Before each game a stray mongrel called Biriba would piss on the leg of a player. When things were going badly for the team the Botafogo president would release the little dog from the stand to run onto the pitch and distract the opposition. Biriba became so important at the club that he was included in one of Botafogo’s championship winning team photographs.

I set off past the Aterro do Flamengo with its fenced playgrounds full of youths playing football, I look over at the Marina da Glória with the mist-topped Sugar Loaf in the background, heading for Praça Quinze where the boats come in from Niterói. Out in the bay the Ilha das Cobras is surrounded by frigates. I drive fast on the Linha Vermelha heading north in the direction of Galeão. To my left is the vast sprawl of the Complexo do Alemão favela, the Instituto Oswaldo Cruz and the toy-town church of Nossa Senhora da Penha perched on its sacred mount. I reach the artificial brine lake designed to deter the favelados from hanging around the beaches of the Zona Sur and then drive north towards the Federal University Hospital block where I had lectured the day before. A nauseating smell of sewage fills the air. I head north-east through the teeming run-down districts of Baixada Fluminense, which are full of old trucks, new schools and stray dogs.

In Casa-Grande & Senzala [The Master and the Slaves], Gilberto Freyre uses the term bagaceira – the shed where the dry pulpy residue left after the extraction of sugar is stored – as a metonym for the exploitative plantation culture. Freyre wrote that “Brazil is sugar and sugar is the Black” and both were linked in the collective unconscious with sensuality and sexuality. Bagaceira was later used to refer generically to marginalised riff-raff. Football had provided Garrincha with an escape route from enslavement but when all the fibre had been squeezed out of him cachaça left him as bagaceira.

The municipality of Magé with its farming communities guarded by the Dedo de Deus mountain marks the official leaving of Rio de Janeiro. We turn right along a bumpy narrow road filled with buses and motorcyclists, cross the single lane railway track, go past a man on a horse and open roadside kiosks selling tyres. The people seem gentler and more approachable than in Grande Rio. At a birosca that sells buns and cachaça I stop to ask the way to Pau Grande. Chortling, the bar owner points to his groin and says, “Aqui está.” “Pau grande”, I later learned, was slang in Brazilian Portuguese for “big cock”.

After another 15 minutes drive the Estadio Mané Garrincha, the home of SC Pau Grande, comes into view, its rustic white walls and small arched entrance resemble an Andalusian village bullring. The grass is lush and samba drifts from the television in the clubhouse. The president, plump, with a Zapata moustache and dressed only in fading khaki shorts, greets me effusively. In one corner of the clubhouse are three cases of memorabilia, one filled with small trophies, the other two with crumpled newspaper cuttings and posters defining the ascent of the Little Bird. One of the pictures shows an 11-year-old Garrincha sticking out in a team of men and another his father Amaro, looking down affectionately on his young son from a small wooden veranda. In some of the group photographs there are boys who resembled my own teammates from school, pale solemn faces, straight brown hair and small chins.

The president tells me that Garrincha used to love to return to Pau Grande for a pelada with his old friends after playing at the Maracanã. Over a glass of cachaça he tells me the club are hoping to raise money to create a small museum. He also reminds me that the black and white striped SC Pau Grande strip is identical to that of Botafogo except for the star. I offer him money to buy a ball, but he refuses and we settle for just another photograph. I then walk down the cobbled road to the centre of the village where a small bust of Garrincha greets the few visitors. To its right are a series of murals illustrating how Pau Grande used to look in its prime.

América Fabril closed in 1971 and its buildings now operate as a distribution centre for mineral water but the Neo-Gothic grey and white Capela de Sant’Ana that had been overwhelmed by Botafogo supporters at Garrincha’s funeral is unchanged. A car blasting out propaganda for Sandra Garrincha, a candidate in the Magé prefectural elections, drives by, followed by a group of young girls waving flags in support of her campaign.

I ask one of the security guards at the gate of the old factory if I can have a look around. The factory looks much the same as it did in the days when it produced cloth. The chimneystack is still standing but there are now vast empty spaces giving parts of it the appearance of a vacant exhibition space. In some of the rooms machines rumble away bottling water from the mountain springs. I thank my guide and walk back into the village in the direction of the lemon bungalow which the Brazilian football federation had bought Garrincha for his part in the World Cup victory in Chile in 1962. Two of Garrincha’s friendly grandnieces are standing on the veranda talking to a young man astride his bicycle. Grilles guard the windows of the house even though I am told there is still next to no crime in Pau Grande. There is a mural of Garrincha’s head in his playing days at the front door and on the wall of the house looking onto the street is written the legendary number 7 he carried on his back and the words “jogando certo com as pernas tortas” [playing straight with twisted legs]. One of the girls invites me to enter a small shrine at the side of the house. Among the photographs and medallions is a framed tribute fastened on one of the walls:

'Garrinchando

'Garrincha pretends that he despises the ball, but she knew he would always come back to pick her up.

The dribble was his courtship.

Garrincha, you passed through life, overcoming all obstacles that were put before you. But in the end that relentless adversary Death defeated your dribble.

From that moment on the ball and the football universe became orphans of the most blessed contorted legs football has ever known.'

Pau Grande is still full of gente boa. Doors do not need to be locked at night. Round the corner from Garrincha’s old house an elderly man tells me that the former mill town is still full of Garrincha’s ancestors. He then leads me up a path behind the houses that reminds me of the Brackenwood edgeland of my childhood, full of weeds, plastic bottles and butterflies. After a short walk up a steep incline we reach an empty white outhouse with two palomino horses tied up outside. 20 metres below the high bank is a clearing strewn with twigs and leaves. At either end are goal posts without nets. I climb down and start to run close to the right edge where patches of grass grow sheltered by overhanging trees. I pause. I then sidestep to the right and accelerate. I twist round with my back to the goal, shimmy and shoot. I feel free. When I can fly no more I sit on a bench behind the far goalposts. Once I have gained my breath I rise and walk to the edge of the ridge and look down on the mill, the little chapel and the orderly rows of houses.

An hour later I drive on up to the cemetery at Raiz da Serra. As I am parking the car, a skeletal drunk in shorts, sandals and a fading orange shirt staggers out of the Encontro dos Amigos bar offering to guide me to Garrincha’s grave. He tells me that the previous Friday three Vasco da Gama players had made the pilgrimage from Rio to pray for inspiration before their game against Flamengo. Tucked away in the middle of a row of closely packed tombstones I am shown a faded inscription, which says “Here lies the man who was the happiness of the people Mané Garrincha.” On the worn headstone his date of death is recorded incorrectly as 20 January 1985. There are no flowers or graffiti. A singer and friend Agnaldo Timóteo had paid for the funeral, the tombstone had been paid for by his captain Nílton Santos and a local family called Rogonisky had allowed Garrincha’s remains to be buried in the same grave as their 10-year-old son who had been killed in a road traffic accident.

I then climb up to look at the newer but equally stark and neglected obelisk. Written on a memorial tablet are the words:

'Garrincha

The Happiness of Pau Grande

The Happiness of Magé

The Happiness of Brazil

The Happiness of the World.'

As I sit in silence in this deserted cemetery I think that it could only have been my great-grandfathers’ deep loyalty to street, neighbourhood and even mill that prevented them packing their bags during the slump. It was in towns like Oldham that association football first changed from a game played by gentlemen into a profitable attractive Saturday afternoon spectator sport. As I sit by Garrincha’s grave I see their familiar faces under their flat caps, their trunks bent over by the damp and onerous labour, hurrying past the smokestacks and rows of terraced houses to Boundary Park. The Latics were yet another stabilising devotion that stopped them sailing down to Rio on a Lamport and Holt steamer.

Football has been hijacked by television money and sponsorship deals. It was now much more of a spectacle but had fewer magic moments. Running fast with the ball glued to your toes was high risk and was decried by millionaire coaches. Wingers like Garrincha (outside rights and lefts) had been replaced by a new breed of wing-backs that could attack and defend. Power and victory were what counted these days.

A small brown wren-like bird with a large cocked-up tail, sharp beak and shiny black cap flits under a neighbouring headstone and interrupts my litany of regrets. Dusk is falling and with a heavy heart I leave through the dark forests on the steep ascent to Petrópolis. I am now certain that when I have started to dribble my lines, when I can no longer remember my date of birth or the names of my children the alchemist will still be around beckoning me to come and join him for a pedala in the clearing above the cotton mill.

[shieldarchitect]

Aether Experiment Verse Bio

Subject X - Charlie Moore

Employee Status:  Terminated

As the designer of the infamous Aether Paradise, Charlie was asked to stay on board for any continuation of design.  Because the conservation area was in constant need of updates to meet the requirements for it’s various residents, her job was constant and she relished in the influx of work and steady job security that was so rare in the design field.  They gave her a permanent residence on the campus, and she customized it to her liking, making it her home away from home.  The rest of her things remained in storage for the time being, until she would eventually grow weary of living at the facility and find somewhere more secluded on one of the islands.  

Ever the night owl, when without work, Charlie liked to roam the building, checking up on the status of some of the less crucial equipment and looking for and even making small repairs.  It was a need, a fidget, an ache to be doing something productive while she was wide awake while the rest of the world seemed to happily slumber.  Late one night, she wandered into the sub basements, intent on checking up on the larger mechanical equipment that supported the facility’s infrastructure.  An odd sound caught her attention and she wandered around, trying to locate the source as it reverberated off of the steel below.  Only after clambering around some tightly packed mechanical ducts, did she find a lengthy catwalk that seemed to tunnel off into a darker corner of the basement.  Curious - she thought - that wasn’t something she had incorporated in the design.  She goes exploring though, to see what odd thing the contractor must have thought necessary, only to find a door with a keypad, oddly white and clean in the drab basements.  After wrangling with the keypad’s wiring, she finds her way inside, and to her horror finds a hallway full of rooms.  Laboratories.  Cages.  The sad cries of pokemon echo through the halls and send chills racing up her spine.  Her face pales as she walks along, eyes meeting sad gazes from within the confines of what can only be decorated cells.  The further from the entrance she walks, the more hellish the sights become, leading her into another turning hall, a labyrinth of horror until she finds humans.  They’re not entirely human though, they look wrong, she thinks, feeling her stomach turn as she spies bits of pokemon anatomy mixed in.  These creatures don’t look at her, don’t register her presence like the pokemon did, and she guesses the reinforced glass between them is mirrored.  

As she pauses at once room, eyes locked on the blonde woman curled away on a cot with ears that are surely from an Eeveelution.  She’s mesmerized by the sheer horror of it, and doesn’t hear the man approaching her from behind.  She only catches sight of his face in the reflection of the glass as his hand wraps around her face, covering her mouth and nose, and then everything goes black.

Age: 27

Height: 5′10 Hair: Dark Brown Eyes: Brown

DNA splice:  Houndoom Status: Active Date of initial splice:  ██ /  ██ /  2017  

Notes:  

• Subject is very hostile, proceed with caution.   • Subject showed little initial progress.  Few physical changes upon splicing. • Progress will be encouraged with low level radiation   ██ /  ██ /  2017 • Subject is particular protective of other subjects. • Subject is manipulative and must be closely monitored because of her knowledge of the facility.   • Subject is a containment issue.

Effects:

██ /  ██ /  2017       • Body temperature failing to stabilize.  Fluctuating between normal subject temperature and temperatures elevated beyond that which can kill an ordinary human.   ██ /  ██ /  2017      • Subject seems further agitated.  Mood swings and sudden outbursts and attacks of a more physical nature.

Future Effects for verse information:

██ /  ██ /  2017      • Subjects fingernails and toenails have hardened and darkened in color.  Rapid growth and thickening is occurring to create what appear to be claws reminiscent of the DNA splice.  ██ /  ██ /  2017      • Subject appears to have incredible itchiness around her forehead just within hairline.  Might be future growth of horns.  To be further observed and documented.  Suspected heightened senses re: smell and hearing.  Seems to be suffering from headaches, likely both due to horn growth and the heightened hearing.  Subject is primarily nocturnal with emphasis on crepuscular activity as corresponds with the splice.  Subject appears to have developed tapetum lucidum on both eyes allowing for advanced vision at night and in darkness, to be tested. ██ /  ██ /  2017      • Small nubs of horn have erupted from subjects skull.  Chemical composition tests confirm that it is neither standard bone nor keratin and matches composition of Houndoom horn, nearly weightless and indestructable.  Growth is exponential.  See photographs documenting size.  Markings reminiscent of the bone like growths on Houndoom backs and ribcage have appeared on subject’s skin in similar areas.  No sign of growth or protrusion.  Only markings on flesh. ██ /  ██ /  2017      • Skin around hands and feet has darkened to a charcoal gray almost black tone.  It appears to have ceased expanding just above wrists and ankles.  Will be monitored for future growth.  Body temperature appears to have stabilized, only increasing when subject is highly agitated.  Take precautions in case of fire.  Horn growth seems to have ceased below ears. ██ /  ██ /  2017      • Subject is currently under sedation after having bitten an employee.  The bite will be documented as it seems to contain a toxin and has left an odd burn.  It does not correlate with a burn left from a Houdoom’s flame, but the toxin appears to be similar.  Teeth have apparently grown and reshaped to a more predatory status.  To be later documented. ██ /  ██ /  2017      • Toxin has spread into employees arm, prompting removal of the limb at closest joint.  Subject is still sedated for time being.  Fire suppression systems to be installed within her containment unit as a precaution.  Still unsure as to when and if fire will be a problem.  

[myaekingheart]

10/28

There were multiple dreams this night.

The first one had something to do with my high school visual design class, but I can't quite remember what. I want to say it had something to do with sleep pods like in The Sims 3: Into the Future and something about running late?

I can't quite remember if this one was basically in the same "dream slot" (so to speak) as the one about my visual design class but I know that one at least faded into this one because the rooms looked similar. I was in a hotel room now with a man who I swear, the more I think about it, must've been Tom Ellis as Lucifer from Lucifer. He kept trying to get me to join him and this girl in their little fucking session, to make it a threesome. It was the day before the girl's wedding day (she actually looked like Doug's wife from The Hangover movies, I can't remember the actresses name) and I guess she was getting cold feet, needed one more big hurrah before she tied the knot, whatever. Either way, my blatant rejection time and time again I guess got her rethinking her choices and questioning her faith to her fiance because I refused to fuck someone else out of respect for my boyfriend or something.

This last dream was probably the fucking wildest out of all of them. It was a Friends based dream that started out in Central Perk. Ross saw a cute girl at one of the high tables that sit behind the big orange couch that he decided he wanted to ask out. She was with a friend, another girl. I can't remember which one was doing this (because my notes were a little vague when I jotted this down the morning after) but one of them was concentrating really hard on some book and a stack of homework. Either way, so Ross gets up to approach this girl he thinks is cute and ask her out but as he gets closer, he realizes this cute girl is none other than Rachel. Later that night, he and Chandler are on the rooftop balcony of this suburban cabin cottage place (it reminded me a lot of the neighborhood from Everyone Loves Raymond, so think upstate New York) where Ross confides in Chandler about what happened. Meanwhile, everyone else is across the street at another suburban cabin cottage-like place, I think they were all sitting at the kitchen table while Monica was serving dinner (the kitchen/dining area looked very much like that of Full House, like 80's/90's wood and florals). Across the street, the windows of the house next to the one Ross and Chandler were standing on are wide open and everyone starts freaking out when they see none other than Chandler climbing into bed with someone's boss (a female, but not Joanna). The dream then cut to a scene of him undressing out front of the house almost as if he was trying to pull some shitty strip tease. Later that night, Chandler goes back across the street to where everyone else is and expresses some regret for what he did. Monica comes over and comforts him, holding his head close to her chest and wrapping her arms around him, whatever, during which Chandler says something along the lines of "You know, the entire time I was over there, all I could think about was how much I wished I was over here with all of you guys instead, kissing and cuddling" (this being my brain's sad attempt at a classic awkward Chandler joke that made sense and sounded in character in the dream but doesn't apparently translate very well when I try to retell it but whatever, it's what happened and I can't change it so whatever.)

10/29

There were these two anime girls, they looked like they were probably from Pokemon more than anything else. One had dark brown/black hair with a headband and big, round, Harry Potter-esque glasses framing gray eyes and the other was taller with blonde hair and blue eyes. They were walking together with a little animal, their pet, along this white dock on their way to school. I guess they lived in a seaside town because of both the aforementioned dock and because everything was blue and white and bright and sunshiney. But anyways, so they had to board this boat bus (that looked kind of like a yacht or one of the boats at Disney World that take you between resorts) in order to get to school but they were running late. They reached the boat just as it was pulling out so they tried to jump onto the back seat of it but they ended up getting in trouble with this older girl who I guess was like the principal of the bus. Her name was Masamune and she had curly blonde hair and blue eyes and a white cap and a white outfit. She kind of reminded me of May from Pokemon, to be honest. But anyways, she got pissed when they tried to jump onto the back of the boat and cast them off. The girls were disappointed but they resolved to just walking to school instead, and as they did so they threw on this matching beige, slouchy knit beanies despite having headbands on and said something about "At least we have matching hats" or something to that effect, I believe? I don't know, something effortly positive was said as they and their little pet (who I can't remember what it looked like for the life of me but I want to say it looked very Pokemon-esque, as well) started walking to school.

10/30

This dream had really weird chronology but I remember being in a long, dark hallway looking for Brooklyn's 99th precinct. There were a lot of stoic strangers in police uniforms around who I was kind of scared to speak to but I remember asking one which way the 99 was and he told me to go left or something? So I started wandering down this hallway looking at the labels on all the doors trying to find the right one. There were so many, though, and it was hard to see because the lights were so dim. I think at one point I did finally find where I was supposed to go and I remember entering this large room that looked like part of a warehouse where the detectives of Brooklyn Nine Nine all were. It was very drab and dull and colorless, though, and I remember feeling nervous and kind of chaotic, even. I think someone gave me some mission to fulfill that required me to leave the precinct for something, I don't remember what it was, but then all of a sudden I got lost again and was wandering around the exterior of this strange Disney-themed theater place. Like I remember being on what was probably ground level outside of an entrance designed like Ursula's lair with dark/purple rock fixtures and seashells and starfish and whatnot. There was no one around to ask for help or directions so I was basically completely on my own here. There was, however, an alcove of sorts with a small set of rock-like stairs that didn't really lead anywhere. I tried climbing them but only ended up on this dark second story platform that didn't lead anywhere but through this unnerving round archway (think like how the entrance to Hot Topic used to look in the old days, but it kind of looked like an old movie reel or something) that led into blackness but somehow I instinctively knew it was an entrance to a stadium portion dedicated to Disney on Ice. I don't remember much after this but I know by the time the dream faded into blackness, I felt panicky and lost and confused and it was all very disorienting. Apparently feeling scared and lost seem to be recurring themes to my dreams these days.

[theessaflett]

Meredith: An Queer Faerie Story

Fairy tales.

What are they? What are they about? Who’s story do they tell?

There’s a comforting reliability to these old childhood stories, a knowledge that we already understand how these sorts of things usually go.

Once, in a far off land, there was a girl. Once, in a far off land, there was a boy. They loved each other very much, and were betrothed to marry in the spring. The boy was a farmer, the girl spun at the spinning wheel in her family’s cottage. Everything was good. Until the day that a witch arrived in the village. Until-

Wait. That’s not how this story goes. Let me try again.

Once, in a small village not so different from one such as this, there was a young woman, trapped in a tower by an evil stepmother. She had skin the colour of creamy milk, hair the colour of sun-kissed straw on a hot summer’s day. Her name was Leah, and she spent her days staring out of her only tiny window waiting for someone, anyone, to rescue her from her prison. One day a prince was riding by when his stallion, black as the darkest night, unexpectedly stopped and-

No, that doesn’t sound right either.

…You see, we are no longer in the world of farm boys, spinning wheels and wicked witches. Our twenty-first century lives are filled with computer screens and fast food chains, our lungs filled with the smell of exhaust fumes rather than manure. And yet, if you know where to look, the inexplicable still lingers. That flicker in the corner of your eye. A shadow where no shadow should be. This new kind of magic is just as likely to be found in a spark of electricity or the rumble of a pneumatic drill as it is in the sigh of a wave or the prick of a needle. And so, I think it might be time to tell you a new story. Are you sitting comfortably?

08:15

Once upon a time it was a very ordinary Monday morning.

We are in London. It is Spring. A wet, grey day, the type that British people are grimly proud about and yet still secretly hate. A young woman called Sara stood at the bus stop, looking up at the rain clouds and hoping it wouldn’t pour before her bus arrived. The only other person waiting beside her was a huddled figure, buried underneath an old-fashioned rain mac. “I’d stop wishing, if I were you,” the figure said suddenly, the crisp English accent revealing that she was a woman. “They’re funny like that. The rain will only come faster.” Sara frowned in confusion, surreptitiously trying to edge away from her odd, unexpected companion. “I’m sorry…They’re…?” “Oh. Of course, this is yesterday, isn’t it. Sorry about that. I’ll come back tomorrow.” “What do you mean, this is yesterday? Yesterday is yesterday.” “Of course it is,” said the figure kindly. “So sorry, I must have got it confused with last Tuesday. You should really buy an umbrella, Sara. You’re going to be soaked by the end of the day. And you really should stop absent-minded wishing. It’s a bad habit. After all, you never know who might be listening.” Sarah stared at the strange woman, face still obscured underneath the hood. “Sorry, how do you know my na-“ There was no-one there. She was alone at the bus stop. As if on cue, the rain started.   By the time her bus arrived, a very damp Sara had convinced herself that the whole thing was an over-tired hallucination. She hadn’t been getting much sleep recently, after all, and everyone knew that sleep was very important when it came to brains working properly. She squeezed on, head stuffed into a stranger’s armpit, and, for once, hoped that the rest of the day would be much more uninteresting.

13:20

Sara sat at in her cramped swivel chair, in front of her cramped desk, in her small, cramped office, her bizarre start to the morning mostly forgotten. Slightly higher up the food chain from the interns but barely more than an assistant, this was hardly what she’d imagined when she’d moved to London three years ago to ‘make it’ in the world of journalism. The whole ‘being a journalist’ thing hadn’t quite worked out and she’d found herself settling for trying to be an editor,  which in turn had turned into settling for being a proof reader for the Baking Recipes & Slimming Tips pages for an agonisingly dull magazine called Women’s Digest. It was a 2-page double spread. Sara wasn’t sure if anyone else saw the irony. She leant back for a moment, tired of trying to breathe some life into a very limp article about the three most interesting uses for raisins, and looked around. Photocopier hum, keyboard tapping, phone ringing, the smell of bad coffee and stale sweat.   How had this become her normal? The little girl that had once stared at stars and wrote fairy tales by torchlight, turned into an office drone? This was adulthood, Sara reminded herself with a sigh. This was most people’s normal. This was how rent was paid and milk was bought. She allowed herself one small 360 degree swivel on her chair before she got back to work, a tiny act of rebellion, rubbed her eyes and readied herself for more tedium. Except, rather than 572 words about raisins, there was something else entirely written on her computer screen.

IS IT TOMORROW YET?

Sara let out a yip of shock, frozen in surprise as she stared at the words. The words, looking suspiciously innocuous, stared back. She looked up, wildly searching for anyone laughing, giggling, anything to suggest that this might be a weird prank. Nobody caught her eye. After all, she didn’t exactly have many close friends in this job. Certainly no-one that would go to the trouble of teasing her with a bizarre joke. Slowly, Sara shifted her gaze back to the question typed out by an unknown hand.

IS IT TOMORROW YET?

At a loss for anything else to do, Sara slowly reached down, tapped two letters and hit send.

NO

A pause, then a reply flashed up.

I’LL COME BACK LATER. REMEMBER TO EAT LUNCH

And just like that, the recipe for raisin bran was back.

19:18

Sara turned the key in the lock, pushed open her front door and sighed in relief that her drab little flat seemed to be exactly as she’d left it. After the weird sort of day she’d had she wouldn’t have counted out coming face to face with a massive tiger or some sort of weird portal into an alternate universe or…something. Still a little cautious, she went into the kitchen, pulled out a mug from the cupboard and switched on the kettle, pulling off her wet coat as the water started to boil. Sara turned to hang the coat on a chair and then, suddenly, there was a sensation like falling backwards and forwards at the same time, a dizzy blurring that caught her breath and stung her eyes. She reached out for something, anything, to steady her, thought that she was going to faint - and then, as suddenly as it had started, the feeling stopped. Sara stood there in the middle of the kitchen, heart racing, breath coming short, unsure of what she had just experienced. She was still holding the coat. But, she slowly realised with a sinking feeling in her stomach, it was now completely dry. The kettle was no longer boiling. She slowly turned to the window, somehow already knowing what she was about to see, and stared blankly at the morning sunlight streaming through the windowpane where early evening twilight should have been instead. It was still raining. “What the…” she whispered to herself, still frozen in place. “What the actual-“ Woodenly she pulled her phone from out of her pocket, then gazed uncomprehendingly at the date. “Tomorrow,” Sara breathed. “It’s tomorrow. But- how-” Suddenly, she knew what to do. Pulling her coat back on, grabbing her keys, she yanked open the front door and ran back down the street she had only walked up minutes earlier. Sara sprinted to the bus stop, lungs burning, feet slamming onto the wet pavement. “IT’S TOMORROW! IT’S TOMORROW NOW!” she shouted. “I DON’T KNOW HOW THE HELL YOU DID IT BUT IT’S TOMORROW NOW!” “There’s no need to yell.” The mysterious figure was huddled in her rain mac, now also holding an umbrella. “it was yesterday! I swear it was yesterday! Am I going mad? How can it be yesterday and then today? I mean today and then tomorrow? What? What is going on??” “Oh, of course. You still have no idea who I am. That’s annoying. Well, I bought you an umbrella. Cost a shilling but we’ll call it a gift.” She offered a bizarrely old-fashioned looking yellow umbrella, which Sara stared at for a second, beyond confused now, then switched back to the main matter at hand. “No, listen, it was - I was standing in my kitchen and it was the evening and now it’s tomorrow morning. How does that happen?” “I grew tired of waiting,” replied the woman. “I’m also getting tired of holding this umbrella. It’s customary to accept gifts when they’re offered, Sara.” At a loss for anything else to do, Sara took the umbrella, then opened it under the mysterious figure’s impatient gaze. “There. Now you’re less likely to catch a cold. Unless, of course, you fancy just getting the rain to stop.” “Gettin- What? I can’t stop the rain! What?! Who are you?”
“Oh, this really is getting annoying.” A face squinted out at her, seemingly appraising her, then sighed. “Okay. Since I’ve gone to the bother of speeding this all up a little bit I might as well get started in earnest. Would you like a cup of tea?”

Sarah found herself following the woman to a grimy cafe with laminated menus and booths that had seen better days. She hadn’t noticed it before despite standing daily at the bus stop that was apparently opposite…but decided not to follow that thought any further in an effort to avoid any more mental instability. A middle-aged man wearing a red and white checked apron wandered over, wiping a dirty looking mug with an even dirtier looking rag. “All right, love? Same as usual?” Sarah looked up from propping the wet umbrella on the seat next to her and waited blankly for the other woman to speak before realising in shock that the man was addressing her. “Er, I haven’t actually-“ she started, trailing off as the man gave a grunt and nodded to her mysterious booth partner. ` “First time today then? Figured it would be one of these days.” “Yes, Sara and I are here to have a bit of a chat. We may need quite a lot of tea.” “I’ll put the kettle on. Would be good to have this rain stop for a bit, eh?” He winked at Sara as he headed back to the counter, a reassuring aside that did nothing to put her at ease. “Sorry, but what is going on? I’m really, really confused and just…well…” She trailed off, unsure as to what else she was. The woman opposite her finally pushed her hood down and untied the massive rain coat, surprising Sara as she did so. Quite the opposite from the mad-looking old woman she realised she’d been half expecting to see, this was a woman maybe in her early thirties, braided hair pulled back into a intricate tail, rich brown eyes staring at hers with a hint of humour. She was dressed, Sarah could see now, in a immaculate navy-blue suit and tie, just a little damp from the rain. “I know the creepy-old-man raincoat gives the wrong idea,” she said apologetically, “But when you’ve paid this much for a suit you don’t want to ruin it by getting it endlessly wet.” “Endlessly? It’s only been raining for, like, two days,” Sarah said, aware that she hadn’t really picked the most unusual part in all of this but deciding that it was best to start somewhere. “For you, maybe,” said the smartly dressed woman, sighing as she straightened her paisley-print tie. “Some of us don’t quite experience the world in such a…linear fashion. I’m Meredith. Have we really not even done that yet?” “..Sara,” Sara managed weakly. “Yes, yes, I know. First of all, let me apologise for dragging you forward a little bit. It wasn’t the most polite move but everyone is very clear on this being the day that we have this conversation and I had really just had had enough of waiting around.” “Everyone? Hang on, waiting around? You’ve been, like, stalking me?” “Stalking is a…harsh word. Believe it or not we do actually know each other very well indeed, although clearly not right at this moment.” “What, we’re, like, friends? I’ve never met you!” Meredith looked at her a moment with an uncomfortably penetrating gaze. “Hm. This is going to be a little trickier than I thought.” The man with the apron came back with two mugs, two milk jugs and a large pot of tea on a tray, next to a little plate of biscuits. Sara was deeply unnerved to realise that they were her favourite kind. “Thanks, Alan,” said Meredith. Alan set the tray down, gave them a smile and a nod and vanished off again. “Hiring Alan was a very good idea of yours,” she said absent-mindedly as she poured the milk. “And before you say anything, it’s almond milk.” “…You know I’m lactose intolerant…?” said Sarah, now so far beyond the point of comprehending anything that she’d reached an odd place of calm. “That’s…nice.” Meredith finished pouring the tea and sat back, idly tapping a finger on the side of her mug. “Drink your tea, Sara. Though possibly I should have gone for whisky. You might need it by the end of this.” Sarah numbly took a sip of what was, she had to admit, a perfect cup of tea, and glanced out the window at the deserted street, rain slithering and sliding down the glass. “Are we still on Edward’s Street?” She asked. “Or somewhere that just looks like Edward’s Street?” “We’re… adjacent to Edward’s Street,” Meredith replied. “We are looking at it. It’s just a little bit…paused, that’s all.” “Is this some Harry Potter thing?” Sarah blurted out. “Like, are you about to start waving around a wand or something?” Meredith rolled her eyes as she drank some more tea. “Now, you were much more close to the truth of the matter with the idea that the Edward’s Street we’re looking at might not necessarily be the Edward’s Street that we just left. Huh. Harry Potter. If I had a wand that would make life a lot easier, believe me.” “So…Look, you’re going to have to give me something to go on. I’m lost over here,” Sara said with sudden exasperation. “You’re a time traveller? You’re an alien with a spaceship? You’re a ghost? What’s the deal here?” “I don’t think I’m a time traveller in the way that you’re thinking,” Meredith replied, “But that’s the most accurate one from the list. Less Doctor Who, more…The best way to describe it is that I’m someone who slips in and out of places. Geographic places and…otherwise.” “Well that’s vague,” Sara replied sourly. “And I suppose during whilst you’re doing this “skipping backwards and forwards in time” thing we’ve met before? In my future? And now you, what, need my help with something? Look, I’m really not the person you think I am. Not that I know who you think I am. I’m…like… I’m not exciting. I’m from Cumbria, not an alien planet or… oh, I don’t know! I don’t know what’s going on or who you think I am but I’m not whoever that is,” Sara stopped, aware she was making very little sense. “Basically, you’ve got the wrong person. Can I…like…go? We might be, I don’t know, future work buddies or friends or whatever according to you but right now I really don’t know you.” Meredith scowled at her, and Sara was worried for a second that something awful was going to happen. What was she doing, annoying someone who messed around with time without breaking a sweat? “I’m not a plot device in one of your beloved Marvel films, Sara.” She seemed to make up her mind about something, leant forward. Sara half-noticed that Meredith smelt like freshly cut grass and rose blossom. It wasn’t unpleasant, and maybe even a little…familiar? Like an echo of a memory whispering to her from the past…or the future…? She shook her head slightly to dispel the odd thought. “Sara,” said Meredith in a tone that demanded full attention. She looked, bizarrely, a little embarrassed. “There’s something…ah…oh, there’s no easy way to say this.” “What?” “We’re not, as you so fondly put it, work acquaintances. You and I… we’re…” The pause hovered in the air, froze for a moment and then crashed back to earth as realisation struck. “What? What? We’re, like…We’re-” “No need to sound so thrilled, darling,” Meredith said dryly. “But yes. At some point in the near future that we can’t really wait to get to, it’s safe to say that you trust me quite a bit.” “Wait. Just hold on for a damn minute. If we’re…why are we even having this conversation? Wouldn’t I have told you about this? Couldn’t you just tell me what future me said happened?” Meredith smirked. “You did say that I made quite the first impression. But that fact that you just became more confused trying to even construct that sentence should explain why it doesn’t really work like that. It’s just too complicated. On the whole I try not to ask too many questions about things I’ve apparently yet to do - puts everything out of balance somewhat if I’m operating off a mental checklist of everything I have or haven’t yet done or said. But. You did say that I needed to show you this.” She loosened her tie, undid the top button of her shirt and fished out a necklace, a pendant the shape of a swallow hanging from a simple silver chain. “Where did you get that?” Sara snapped, staring at the necklace. “From you, Sara,” Meredith said with real impatience in her voice now as she tucked the necklace away again, fastened her top button and adjusted her tie back into its impeccable original position.  “I know this is hard to comprehend but you’re really going to have to try and have this existential crisis a little bit faster. This is your mother’s necklace, the one that you promised her to keep safe, the one that you gave to me on our… well. Let’s not get ahead of ourselves. You gave me this necklace, Sara. Can you trust me now?” “Trust you?” Sara felt completely lost. She couldn’t relate to this future person, this Sara, who gave away family heirlooms and was apparently very important to the universe. “I don’t know if I can trust me. …Who am I?” “Who are you?” Said Meredith with a quirked eyebrow. “Oh, for heaven’s sake. You’re Sara. If you don’t know who you are then there’s not much chance for the rest of us.” “Well I obviously don’t know,” Sara said, hysteria rising, “Because I think I’m a very, very normal, boring 25-year-old who’s a copy editor for a bad women’s magazine, who grew up in the Lake District and is allergic to cats, whereas clearly there’s a rather different Sara going around who, like, knows about inexplicable cafes and dates mysterious women and, and, can do stuff to the weather?” Meredith gave an exasperated sigh. “That is the least helpful self-description that I think anyone has ever given about themselves, ever. All right. You, Sara Dawson, did indeed grow up in the Lake District and you are quite impressively allergic to cats.  That’s where the correct part of your surmising ends. You’ve been a copy editor for all of a year so I hardly think it’s fair to say that that’s a large part of your personality, especially since you stop working there as of…well, today. And I doubt a boring person would be able to do what you’re able to do.” “And what is it exactly,” ground out Sara, completely at the end of her tether, “That I am able to do?” Meredith looked at her a moment. “I see I’m going to have to give you a nudge. All right. I wouldn’t normally do this but the time being what it is…” She held out a hand. “I’m sorry to spring this on you so suddenly, and so, well, brutally. I always hoped it was a little more gentle, but apparently not. I’m afraid you’re just going to have to trust me right now, Sara. Please.” Sara hesitated, then took the offered hand. It seemed like by this point it was better to continue forging forward in this utterly insane sequence of events than look back and realise how far from normal she’d somehow come. “Close your eyes,” Meredith instructed and Sara did so, feeling utterly foolish. “Right. I might as well warn you that this is probably going to be a little frightening. I realise that this thought is less comforting than it might be, given the context, but…I’m right here with you.” A second passed. Nothing. Two seconds passed. Nothing. Sara had just opened her mouth to say that whatever terrifying thing that Meredith thought might be happening it didn’t seem to be working when-  

Suddenly, impossibly, Sara heard everything. Felt everything. It seemed overwhelmingly like life had, unbeknownst to her, been previously lived in a black and white photocopy, a dull 2D imitation of what existing could be, and now unexpectedly had brilliantly opened up into high definition 4D. Even as she marvelled at this new impossibly expanded world there was a distant, vague memory that this was how it had been at the start, at the very beginning of being Sara. But, oh! The joy, the power of that sensing, that feeling - the beat of her heart, the blood coursing through her veins, through Meredith’s veins, green shoots twisting up through the earth under the tarmac deep, deep below her feet, the electricity crackling in the air, even the slight vibrations of the very atoms making up the table, the floor, the air, the entire fabric of existence tangible and ready to mould into- “Sara! Stop!” With a gasp, Sara was sucked back into 2D, though not quite the same 2D she had left: that sense of feeling, of sensing, hummed in the background, ready to be pulled forward once more. Meredith, letting go, pushed her hands through her hair in a gesture that belied her stress. “Bloody hell, Sara. Let’s go easy on ripping apart the universe, shall we?” “I remember,” Sara said slowly, the world and Meredith reduced to muffled background noise as it all slowly fell into place. “I remember now. This is how I used to see things.” “Yes.” Meredith looked a little more calm as she drank her tea. “Until someone sensible on the Board decided that having a 1 year old playing around with the existence of life as we know it probably wasn’t the best idea. You were fitted with the mental equivalent of bicycle stabilisers. Something to hold everything in check until you were ready to actually control what you could do.” Sara frowned. “The board? What’s the board? A group of, I’m guessing, old white guys got together and decided to…what? Essentially… maim me? Didn’t I get a say in this?” “They’re not exactly guys and you were, again, let me state this, under one years old so couldn’t say much in the first place but, yes, I see your point. Which is why I’ve taken the metaphorical  bicycle stabilisers off. Something that I’m sure several people will think is a terrible, terrible mistake on my part.” Sara looked at Meredith, really looked at her, for the first time, eyes slightly narrowed. “And why isn’t it a terrible, terrible mistake on your part?” She smiled slightly, cocking her head. “Because I know you. Someone who likes living on this world, who likes biscuits and sunrises and puppies and, well, generally being alive as much as you do, is unlikely to implode the universe. Not on purpose, at any rate.” “…What about not on purpose?” “…Well yes, that’s a slightly different matter. And why we should really get going, darling. We have an issue with the Board that needs your help but it’s probably a good idea you get a handle on things first. I know somewhere where you can test drive a few of your…capabilities without causing lasting damage to any small solar systems.” Sara drank the last of her tea and stood up as Meredith pulled on her damp coat. “You still haven’t explained who these board people actually are, Meredith.” “One thing at a time, dear,” said Meredith absent-mindedly as she steered Sara towards the door, picking up the umbrella as she did so. “Let’s start at the start and see where we go from there.” `”Oh come on, it can’t be that complicated.” “I really think you might be surprised about that…but if you insist…” The two of them slipped out of the cafe and into the rain. A moment later, both the cafe and the figures were gone. And a moment after that, if you listened carefully, drifting on the breeze, you might have heard:
“They’re the board of WHAT?!”

[theconservativebrief]

There’s a reason movies employ costume designers, why celebrities hire stylists, and why you changed outfits no fewer than three times before your last promising first date — fashion choices broadcast nuanced details about a person’s identity and personality.

The same, of course, holds true for fictional characters in novels. The choices that authors make about apparel and accessories can bring a character to life, or they can push fiction into fantasy. Remember when Carrie Bradshaw picked apart Jack Berger’s novel because he dressed his character in a then-unfashionable scrunchie? Select the right pieces and your character will feel real; select the wrong ones and readers won’t believe a word.

Scrunchies aside, stylistic choices have turned so many moments from capital-L Literature into memorable scenes. In Gone With the Wind, Scarlett O’Hara whipped up an iconic gown out of green curtains during the poverty-stricken days of Reconstruction, when she couldn’t afford to purchase a dress. In Jane Eyre, the protagonist refuses to wear the brightly colored silk and satin gowns Mr. Rochester offers her in favor of the drab dresses she feels are more appropriate for her position as a governess. In The Bell Jar, Esther Greenwood immediately divulges by page three that she rushed over to Bloomingdale’s on her lunch break to purchase black patent leather shoes with a matching belt and handbag to prepare for her summer of working at a magazine in New York — that’s how important her accessories are to her. And who can forget The Great Gatsby’s Jay manically tossing up shirts, or American Psycho’s Patrick Bateman reciting a list of designers and brand names with the reverence usually reserved for church?

If these scenes seem particularly vivid to you, it might be because each of these classics has been adapted onscreen, as so many best-sellers are (including two of the books below). That creates further opportunity for these looks to come to life.

I asked the authors of five buzzy novels to select one important look they’ve created for a specific character and dissect what the ensemble means to the character. How does she choose to dress herself, and what does that signify about who she is? The outfits themselves vary wildly from a disheveled 1940s ostrich feather ball gown to a worn-out Lilly Pulitzer tank top, but each author emphasized the same point: Their choices were intentional. Nothing was accidental or poorly thought-out. One author went on an online shopping frenzy to dress her character for a wedding; another even brought in an outside stylist to ensure the clothes were up to date.

The next time you pick up a novel, pay special attention to what each character wears — every outfit is a road map of their values, tastes, history, and insecurities. Below, five authors reveal how they use fashion as a tool in fiction.

Half the fun of zipping through the rollicking family drama of Crazy Rich Asians is the fashion. Kevin Kwan makes it clear that among certain circles in upper-crust Asian society, you’re only worth as much as the labels you choose to wear — and the tackiest thing you can do is to dress above your station. “When I write all my characters, I really imagine from head to toe every single thing they’re wearing,” Kwan says. “If I didn’t already know the piece, I would scour the internet, looking at collections and creating outfits for the characters.”

Astrid Leong in her VBH earrings.

Crazy Rich Asians follows Rachel Chu, an American-born professor, who travels to Asia to meet her boyfriend Nick Young’s astronomically wealthy family for the first time. Astrid Leong is Nick’s beloved cousin; she’s a stay-at-home wife and mother, as well as a fashion icon among the elite. She flies to Paris every season for custom couture and had a close friendship with Yves Saint Laurent (RIP), but she’s not afraid to wear a dress off the rack from Zara … as long as it’s styled just so with museum-quality Etruscan bangles.

“Astrid is very much inspired by one person,” Kwan says; he tried to recreate her style for the book. “Astrid sees dressing as her only form of artistic expression. She lives in this very cloistered world where she has to put the right foot forward at all times. Fashion, for her, is a way of being rebellious, and it’s a way of asserting her own creative expression into her life.”

Kwan discovered this Alexis Mabille white peasant blouse back in 2010 and was inspired to dress Astrid in it for a Friday night dinner at her grandmother’s house, where a more relaxed outfit would make sense. She’s dressed down in order to detract attention from her new VBH earrings — a splurge that would make her slightly less wealthy husband uncomfortable. “She pairs the earrings with something that’s just kind of more fun and casual so the earrings look like costume jewelry,” Kwan notes.

While writing the next books in the trilogy, China Rich Girlfriend and Rich People Problems, Kwan turned to Cleo Davis-Urman, now the Fashion Director of Saks Fifth Avenue, to source apparel and accessories for his characters. “I was so frantically busy trying to meet my deadlines that her help in keeping up to date on the latest fashions was invaluable,” he says.

Crazy Rich Asians hit theaters this summer, with costumes by Mary Vogt (her past projects include Hocus Pocus and Men in Black). Kwan says that Vogt often mirrored exact outfits from the book, like Araminta Lee’s gold jumpsuit at her bachelorette party and the beige linen suit Nick wears to greet Rachel at Tyersall Park for the first time.

Social Creature is what would happen if an overgrown Eloise at the Plaza had a wardrobe full of stained vintage dresses and an eccentric pack of friends — and if she wound up dead. The glamorous thriller follows Louise Wilson, a mousy underachiever whose life changes overnight when she meets Lavinia Williams, a madcap bombshell who frolics at the opera, trades witty barbs at secret bookstores, and dances at a stand-in for the McKittrick Hotel.

“My vision for Lavinia is the little kid who goes into her parents’ wardrobe and comes out wearing everything,” Tara Isabella Burton (a staff writer at Vox) says. She swathes herself in vintage from the 1920s through the ’50s, but she doesn’t have the self-care skills required to preserve her delicate clothes. “She definitely leaves her clothes rumpled in a pile on her floor when she stumbles home drunk. She does not fold things neatly. She is constantly drinking and spilling shit,” Burton adds. From afar, thanks to her class privilege and sheer force of personality, Lavinia succeeds in looking like an effortless sylph. But up close, she’s a mess.

Lavinia with her gorgeous dress caught on a door.

She comes from a wealthy family and veers wildly between using her money to attract and keep friends and feeling self-conscious about her background. She’s likely to spend hundreds at a curated vintage store but lie and say she found a dress at a thrift shop for $5. “It’s very much in the Upper East Side, WASP-y vein to downplay and be like, ‘Oh, this old thing? It was on sale! Of course I didn’t pay for it!’” says Burton.

The first time readers meet Lavinia, she flies into the brownstone she shares with her teen sister, Cordelia, at 6 am. Louise, Cordelia’s SAT tutor, has been up all night waiting for Lavinia to come home to pay her. Lavinia accidentally slams the door on the ostrich feather hem of her 1940s ball gown and sheds feathers everywhere she walks, like an injured bird. Louise is able to mend the dress for her, which sparks the beginning of their dangerously codependent friendship.

At the New York launch party for Social Creature, Burton wore a similar ostrich feather gown in pale pink. She says she didn’t intend to match Lavinia but liked that the gown “felt very Social Creature.” She also Sharpied on a “More Poetry!!!” arm tattoo, like the ones Louise and Lavinia get together in the book. At the party, Burton’s fake tattoo smudged off onto her dress, and she dabbed out the stain with a wet napkin. Unlike her character, she could take care of her vintage duds.

Imagine this: You get stuck in an elevator with your dream guy. He invites you to be his plus one to his ex’s wedding, less than 48 hours away. That’s the meet-cute that kicks off The Wedding Date. To dress Alexa Monroe and the other characters in the book, Jasmine Guillory thought carefully about how their wardrobes would function practically in their lives.

Alexa in her red dress.

Alexa is the chief of staff for the mayor of Berkeley, and her wardrobe is mostly work clothes. She opts for colorful shift dresses and blazers from department stores; she’s a little preppy and likes J.Crew. She’d love to wear a Theory suit, but she’s busty, so blazers don’t always fit her the way she’d hope. For the past few weddings she’s attended, she’s either been a bridesmaid or done Rent the Runway, so she has to scramble for something to wear. She summons her best friend Maddie, a stylist, for a day of shopping.

“I did a lot of mock online shopping for what Alexa would wear to this wedding,” Guillory says. “I wanted her to feel like the star version of herself, like she has a glow about her the whole night.” Guillory — or Maddie — ultimately selects a red fit-and-flare cocktail dress with a low neckline. The cut of the dress was intentional; Guillory wanted Alexa to be able to wear it without Spanx underneath, in case she happened to later undress in front of her wedding date, Drew Nichols. Instead, she would be able to wear the dress with a pretty, sexy bra and panty set.

For Alexa, the dress inspires a serious confidence boost. “Normally, she would think, ‘Oh, a guy like this would not be interested in me,’” Guillory explains. “But with that dress on, she feels like Cinderella. … It’s kind of a magic dress and a magic night, so she might as well flirt with the hot guy. Why not?”

High school freshman Chloe Sayers can fit in with anyone in her small New Hampshire town: She looks like a popular kid, dreams of life as an artist, and is best friends with misfit Jon Bronson, who’s secretly in love with her. Jon is kidnapped, only to mysteriously return four years later with no recollection of what has happened and with strange powers that threaten those around him. Meanwhile, in Providence, Rhode Island, Detective Charles “Eggs” DeBenedictus is investigating a string of seemingly healthy young people who keep dropping dead. The genre-bending novel follows their three separate but interconnected lives.

Chloe in her casual hometown outfit.

More than a decade later, Chloe is a hotshot New York artist whose portraits of Jon have made her a star. She’s been deeply uncomfortable dressing up ever since her high school prom, when she wore a revealing dress she didn’t like. Typically, she’s in paint-splattered cutoffs and big, old T-shirts — easy pieces to throw on when she’s making art. She’s keenly aware that setting and context matter: When she’s back home in New Hampshire, god forbid she dress up and offend people’s casual sensibilities; when she’s out in New York with her Entourage-loving financier fiancé, she knows to dress for his newly urban tastes, even though he’s from her small New England hometown too. “She wishes she didn’t care so much, but she does,” Caroline Kepnes explains.

The morning after her big engagement party in her hometown, Chloe is getting dressed to reunite with Jon. At first, she chooses a little pink dress, but she knows her fiancé’s family would sneer and call her overdressed. Instead, she throws on an old Lilly Pulitzer tank top and denim cutoffs. Her fiancé’s sister-in-law sneers, anyway. “Chloe doesn’t wear Lilly in New York,” Kepnes explains. “She wears it in Nashua to fuck with her would-be sisters-in-law who read Lilly as, ‘So you think you’re better than me, huh?’”

As a teenager, in the wake of Jon’s disappearance, Kepnes says Chloe’s “whole identity was constantly nitpicked and torn apart, so she’s more relaxed. She’s like, ‘No matter what I do, they’re going to say something, so I’m just going to wear what I wear.’” Depending on whom you ask, a classically printed Lilly tank top is either obnoxiously preppy or sweetly nostalgic; for Chloe, in this moment, it’s a form of expression and rebellion.

Lara Jean Song Covey is the 16-year-old protagonist of Jenny Han’s trilogy To All the Boys I’ve Loved Before (the Netflix adaptation came out this August). A true romantic, she writes letters to every boy she’s ever had feelings for and stashes them away in a teal hatbox given to her by her late mother. When the letters accidentally get sent to each boy in question, well, Lara Jean’s life quickly gets pretty interesting.

Lara Jean in her iconic knee socks and cardigan.

“Her look is 1960s retro meets 1990s meets Asian streetwear,” Han says. “It’s aspirationally romantic schoolgirl, and as an introverted person, it’s her way to express herself.” Lara Jean draws inspiration from Asian fashion blogs, wears clothes that her aunt sends her from Korea, and likes to shop at vintage stores. Han referenced the movie Clueless and Korean fast fashion from sites like Stylenanda to develop Lara Jean’s style. She gave her three recurring style signatures: a hair bow, a heart-shaped locket, and knee socks.

The socks have become such a fixture among fans, Han says, that readers often wear them to book signings as a tribute to the character. “Her style came together in a way that made sense to me because of her romantic nature, her fascination with the past, and her idea of what love looks like,” she says.

This outfit is something Lara Jean wears for a regular day at school. It also appears in the final scene in the movie. “I had extensive conversations with the producers in regard to Lara Jean’s style,” Han says. “I sent them mood boards.” This particular silhouette — a button-down with a short skirt — is used frequently.

Ultimately, Lara Jean’s look is also somewhat influenced by Han’s personal tastes. “It’s very similar to my style,” she says.

Original Source -> How do you choose an outfit for a fictional character? 5 authors explain.

via The Conservative Brief

[michaelgeorgeblog]

Brit Detained in a American Psychiatric Hospital: The Daily Routine

Having mental health crisis whilst living my dream. Why me?

February 2017 marked the beginning of my mental health crisis. I was living my dream of studying in California, whilst also living my best life. I was taking road trips in a muscle car, experiencing the wonders of Dolores Park (have a google) and spending time with people who left an imprint on my heart, forever.

I was confused as to why I was having a mental health crisis. I did not even want to accept it or seek help; why was I feeling this way? It made no sense – I was literally living my dream.

14 months later, I realised a somewhat sobering truth. Whilst going to America, I was running away to intellectual freedom, hippies and a fresh start in life. Subconsciously, it was a hard truth realising that this fresh start was only temporary, I would be moving back to my old life, which, deep-down, I knew was a fragile house of cards that could not take the wind any longer.

Let me start by saying this, I loved my time in California and would not change it for the world. It gave me new hope, aspirations and this experience forced me to begin reconfiguring my behaviours, relations and gave me a vital reference point in realising the right way I should be treated and treat others. This mental health crisis was bound to happen at some point, if it started in the UK, I’m not sure I would have had the insight, friend support and courage to come out on the other side.

I will write more about my mental health experiences, looking at comparisons between being a student in the UK and US as time goes on. I am starting by getting something off my chest, something which, being unexpressed, has been plaguing me for a while.

My detention in an American Psychiatric Hospital on two occasions.

I will not go into the process of getting admitted, that is a whole different story, involving  a hospital gown, taking off all my clothes to be searched and overcoming great fear.

The severity of my mental ailments was minimal in the US compared to the UK. I was not suicidal per se, rather, I had undergone a series of minor self-harm and minor overdose as I was desperate to seek help, but was not brave enough to do it initially. I needed physical signs and manifestations to prove to myself that I was mentally ill, otherwise I felt unjustified seeking help.

A big difference between the UK and US (beyond people firing guns, building walls and a ridiculously high drinking age) is that healthcare is private. Thankfully, I had “Platinum” (Very bougie) health insurance. In the UK, services need to be rationalised as it is public funded. In this sense, the US system has no in-between. It is hospital or nothing. I had the insurance to pay the bills (without which would be in the range of $60,000) and the seemingly only option to the Doctors was to detain me under a 5150 hold (72-hour involuntary psychiatric detention). It is ironic that this hold was placed on me, especially as I voluntarily went to seek help myself.

My experience of the mental health hospital, as much as I hated it at the time, did help me out a lot. It gave me an intensive level of care, support and ultimately, time to rest that I would not have got in the UK (more on how hard it is to get help in the UK in later posts). It kept me going and made it possible for me to complete my year and move onto other things.

As a grown adult, especially one abroad who is in denial of the severity of their mental health, it was a shocking experience. Seeing as I come from the perspective of an outsider, I would like to start by outlining the daily routine in this hospital. I will share more stories as my reflections grow and I find peace in being able to talk about them.

What does an American Adult Psychiatric Care Home look like?

I am first going to write about the setup of the unit. It is difficult to fully imagine what a mental health unit looks like, with lots of stigma and stereotypes fueling what it is. I will say this, do not underestimated how my ‘Platinum’ health insurance dictated my experience. I stayed in a private hospital, designed to fulfil my needs without resource restrictions as the healthcare conglomerates enjoy having free reign to charge an insurance plan as much as possible.

People without insurance go to a State County Hospital. Given the lack of investment the American welfare system gives, I dread to think what the experience must be like there. I assume this is where all the stereotypes of men in white suits, cell doors and strait jackets come from.

My unit was very different from this experience. A mental health ‘unit’ is what the name suggests – a singular closed off space, self-sufficient with no access from outside world.

This is very much true, the space consisted of one large sized common area. Beneath the orange-tinted warm lights, there were rather comfy chairs placed around the area (with arm rests on each side to stop patients entering each other’s personal space). The nurses, to which there were about 4 (roughly three to each patient), would be sat in these chairs, watching, listening and documenting everything that is going on. This would be done through some sort of portable computer on wheels, which they would move round to check your file, document your behaviours and record medication.

In this room there were two payphones (free to use). We had our mobile phones confiscated off us, I had to write down my friend’s names on a piece of paper to call. During activity hours and night time, the phones would be locked. It was a constant battle to leave the session promptly, to ensure you were the first to get to the phone. Talking time was limited to around 15 minutes, to ensure others could use the phones.

This rectangular space had doors leading to the patient rooms from it. My insurance enabled me to share a room with another patient. It was very basic, windows that could not open, blue bedding and constant room searches (we could not keep anything in there!). There was an en-suite in this room, with a cushioned half-door to give privacy, but this enables quick access by nurses. The shower had no heat setting, it just produced warm water and we were given shower products that we could use: shower gel, toothbrush, toothpaste and soap. I also had to walk around wearing these hospital/slipper socks.

There were two rooms for our daily one to one appointments with our psychiatrist leading off from the main area. This main area also had a locked room which only nurses could have access to, the medication room (where everything is stored and brought up from the pharmacy by what appears to be some fancy machine). There was also the nursing station, which was again, a space we had no access to: this is where the nurses talked, kept belongings, kept track of patients and also observed.

The staff all had very unique functions. One member of staff, who would rotate shifts, would be present 24 hours to solely check that we were still present every 15 mins. Someone every 15 minutes would check me off a list being marked as present, even when I was sleeping at night.

The only other remaining room was the day room – a drab, small space where we would do our daily activities (usually partially drugged up) and would try and find something to do for leisure. It had a window, where, to much sadness, I could see the Berkeley bell tower – so in sight but so seemingly far away in the distance.

In this room there were pre-designated board games, a TV (which could only be on at certain times), the snack cupboard (which would be locked/unlocked by nurse at pre-designated ‘snack times’) and felt tips. It was grey, drab and had those large chairs.

This is also where I would eat my breakfast, lunch and dinner. In a prison esque style, our food, with names on, would be delivered in brown trays. We had to have our dietary requirements and food approved by our Psychiatrist, including whether we could drink caffeinate drinks (I was allowed one cup of caffeinated coffee a day).

I stayed in this environment twice, against my will (although I sought help), for 5 day stretches.

 The Daily Routine: Rules, snack time, medication and lonely containment.

 8:00 am: Wake up

We all had to be awake by this point, the nurses and support workers would wake us up if we stayed asleep. There was nothing more thrilling than waking up after a long day at ER, to be greeted by a Support Therapist asking me to engage in our session later involving drawing pictures about the beach.

The nurses would come around, check our vital signs (blood pressure, pulse etc). We then would pick up our breakfast trays an indulge in all-you-can drink decaffeinated coffee or crap American black tea (what even is Lipton?)

At around 8:30 am the nurses would give us our medication. I tried to avoid it as much as possible, but started taking whatever I could to escape reality as I did not want to be in the realms of conscious thought in this environment. If anyone reading likes to engage in prescribed substance abuse, maybe an American Psychiatric Hospital would be your dream choice of holiday.

9:00am: Rules and intro session.

This was the same, every single day. The support working would begin by going through an elongated list of extreme rules (which I will come onto in another post). He would then lay out our day and what activities were planned. It was incredibly boring to have to repeatedly listen to this regimented routine, this whole process took about 30 minutes.

We would then do some ice breaker (fun fun fun). I’d have to write on a piece of paper my goal for the day, my mood and anything I’m thinking. We would then read it out. Unbeknownst to me, this would be recorded and would go on our medical chart: with nurses, psychiatrist, social worker (I still find it kind of ironic that this exists in a private system) and whoever involved has access to. I learnt to be careful about what to say as I did not want to give them reason to make my stay longer than needed (hospital probably just wanted the insurance monies).

9:45am: Snack time

Nurse, with a feeding time at the zoo attitude, would open up the ‘snack’ cupboard. This was limited to ready salted crisps, Oreos, some fruit bars, cheese, crackers and various juices.

10:00 Session 1 (Anything from art, pretending to be a tree [yoga], trying to find problems in my life that weren’t there and meditation)

11:00 Snacktime

11:30: Guided Walk outside of Hospital

You could spend 15 minutes going on a walk around the circumfrance of hospital, with a support worker to make sure you do not run away. This can only happen if you are there on a voluntary basis and your ‘insurance’ agrees (I actually do not know how this costs money)

12:00 Lunch

Delivered only in the finest quality tray

13:00- 14:00 Visting Hours

Friends could come visit for an hour. They had to be searched, lock away their phones, wear nothing that I could hang myself with etc. Nurses monitored conversations. I was sad after one conversation (not related to my friends at all) and the nurse threatened to stop my visitation.

14:00 – 15:00 Session 2

15:00: Snack Time

15:45: Nurse Changeover

Make sure your requests for help in a very expensive private mental health hospital are timed as the nurses become moody and self-righteous to not help during the changeover.

16:00 Afternoon session

16:45 Reflection on day

17:00 Dinner

18:00-19:00 Visitation

20:00 End of Day

21:00 Night Medication, bed.

21:00: Nurses randomly taking blood whilst sleeping, people watching you and all phones closed.

During the day our Psychiatrist would pop in to see us: this time varied (it was also annoying on the day of release as you were waiting around for them to sign off!) We would also see a Social Worker (again, as a foreign national, no idea why I had one) and check in with our nurse now and then (more on the attitudes of them later)

I hope you found this enlightening. Like I said, I loved my time in the States and would not change it for the world. I will post more about my hospitalisations, comparisons between the UK and US mental health as time progresses.

Please like my page to keep up to date!

 Michael